


A Christmas Peril

by The_Dawn_Knight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Shazam! | Captain Marvel (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Bat Christmas, Bat Fam Fluff, Billy Batson Needs a Hug, Billy Batson is Bruce Wayne's Child, Billy Batson needs love, Billy Batson needs some Food, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne Acts Like a Kid, Damian Wayne Has Feelings, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghost of Christmas Present - Freeform, Good Sibling Billy Batson, Heart Strings tug tug, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Johnathan Kent Needs a Hug, M/M, Multi, Other, Overprotective Superman, Protective Siblings, Right in the Feels!, Super Fam Fluff, The Bat Babies need a Hug, ghost of christmas future - Freeform, ghost of christmas past - Freeform, shazam! - Freeform, so cute and fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dawn_Knight/pseuds/The_Dawn_Knight
Summary: The ghosts of Christmas past present and future have fallen upon the Wayne household when three mentally and physically abused children come to stay.Its horrible enough that Jon has been isolated due to the destructive capabilities of his powers. Or that Billy has been left orphaned and homeless. But when Batman learns what Talia has been putting his son through. It might just push him over the edge.This leads to an overly publicised custody battle between Gotham's billionaire playboy and the wealthy religious socialite with a cult following and an assassination hobby.
Comments: 58
Kudos: 170





	1. Intro

It was Christmas time. The snow was thick, the lights were festive. Everyone was bustling about the towns buying their presents for Christmas day. One week away. You couldn't turn a corner without seeing the decorations, and you couldn't enter a store without hearing the classic songs. This year the children wrote so many letters to Santa that the postman was a bit overwhelmed. These letters of varying colors and sizes, were often adorned with various stickers and drawings. Some envelopes even had ribbons tied to it, or in the case of one letter, woven through it. All these bits of children's hopes and wishes were collected in large bins and stored in a back room until they could be shredded. Chopped and torn into tiny little pieces big enough for confetti.

Their was, after all... no Santa Claus. No North Pole. No place to deliver these letters, and no one to answer them, even if their was a proper address. What else was one supposed to do with letters written to an imaginary person?

That year, three little boys wrote to Santa for the very first time. Their letters were buried in the bin among countless others.

**The first one read:**

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Please heal my Mother. She's hurt, and it's my fault. Please bring her back to Dad safe and healthy. I'll stay down here forever and ever and I won't ever leave again if you could just make her okay._

_From_

_Jon_

* * *

Jon was a small child, even though he was taller than most children that matched his age of just six years old. He was currently in the ground. Far below the the barn that sat on his family's property, far below their house, and far below the cows and chickens that roamed around. This place used to be a tornado shelter. Well, in a way it still was. But his Father had made it go down much deeper than it used to. It went so far down that it was cold without a heater even in the summer time. It was winter now. It had a bed, and a TV. It had games, a fridge, and a bathroom. Pretty much everything that was found in their home a good ways above him.

Their home was a farm house. Picture any old farm house in a home and garden magazine and that was basically their home. The halls had blue wallpaper and the paneling was a white grain. Their were various carpets that fit the pastels that colored the couches, curtains and pillows. It had a lot of things with sentimental value. Little knickknacks that had belonged to his grandmother. A collection of fishing rods that his grandfather owned. But the most sentimental of all was his Mother's memory. Her memory walked the halls. It cooked in the kitchen. It sat at her desk writing her latest articles. Everything he looked at had a memory attached that featured her smiling face. So it was good. It was good that he wasn't there most of the time, so he didn't destroy that too.

He could only be there when his Father was home. Which wasn't often. His Father left early every morning to go to Metropolis to work, and he often came home sometimes quite late at night. He would bring Jon down to that cellar before he would start his day, and his instructions to Jon were always the same.

"Whatever you do, don't leave this room."

 _Don't leave_. On any given day, it was the most important thing he had to do, even more important than his homeschooling homework. _Don't leave. Stay put._

He was good at staying put.

Christmas was drawing close, and his Father had asked him to make a list of everything he wanted. He was sure his Father didn't even want Santa around him for fear of his safety. So he would be the one to take his wish list and would lie and say he would fly the list to Santa himself. His Father was Superman after all he could do that. Though Jon knew it was a lie. He bought the presents himself, and just told him it was from Santa. His Father wouldn't even let his Grandparents come around him, so why would he risk Santa's safety when so many kids relied upon him?

But he wanted Santa to know his wish, and to make it come true, he wouldn't even have to come anywhere near their farmhouse so he would be safe. But how to get that message to Santa, without his Father finding out? The next time he went to the cellar while his Dad was working he got out a crayon and he wrote his letter. Dear Santa, please heal my Mother. She's hurt, and it's my fault. Please bring her back to Dad safe and healthy. I'll stay down here forever and ever and I won't ever leave again if you could just make her okay. From Jon. He read it over a few times hoping it didn't sound bad. Now what? He wasn't allowed to go even to the mailbox to mail it. He needed a stamp too. He spent the whole day trying to come up with that to do and the only plan he came up with was to get the most adult looking envelope he could find and put his letter in it. Then he needed to slip it in with stack of mail that needed to go out. That was the best plan his little brain could come up with.

So when his Dad came home and he was allowed back in the house. He went through a stack of junk mail and took one of the return envelopes that letters will typically have when they want replies. He folded up his letter and put it inside it and he grabbed a pen, writing in the best adult handwriting he could manage and put the address as the North Pole. His Father typically kept a roll of stamps in the desk drawer. So when he was making dinner Jon stole one. It was not okay to steal... But this was an emergency. So he hoped it didn't put him on the naughty list. Holding the letter out in front of him he admired his work very certain no one would be able to tell that this was addressed by a kid.

He slipped it under a stack of letters that he knew his Father would need to mail tomorrow, and waited...

When tomorrow came, his Father grabbed the letters without even a second glance and he took Jon down to the cellar, told him to do his homework, be safe, and don't leave. Then he went to work. Good. His letter was going to get to Santa...

And he would stay put. Because his Mother was going to come home. She would be healthy. Dad would be happy again. Grandma and Grandpa would be able to visit. And he... He would stay here.

It really wasn't so bad... Which was a lie he told himself often. But this time he would make himself believe it. For Mom.

He wondered sometimes why his Dad didn't just seal him away down here and just keep everyone safe by never letting him out.

In truth, his father had never even locked him down there, he had been curious one day and walked up the long series of steps just to see if he had, and when he got to the door, he opened it. Just a crack. Letting the light shine in onto his shoe. He didn't dare open it further. He couldn't. He wasn't allowed. He would stay if the TV broke. He would stay if the batteries in his games died. He would stay if the heater turned off. He would stay even if the food ran out. He would stay down here forever, if his Father wished it. It was the least he could do.

The guilt of knowing what he had already done and what he could possibly do was just as confining as any padlock or chain, and his father just didn't need those things to keep him trapped there.

But it would be okay because in one week, it would be Christmas time.

If his Mother was home on Christmas morning. Then Santa was real... For the first time in his life, maybe he didn't mind being in that cellar, as long as she came home.

**The second one said:**

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Sorry to bother you, but if it's not too much to ask maybe you could get me heaven's number. I looked in the phone book, and heaven isn't listed. Let my parents know I just want to say hi. If they're not too busy._

_Thank you,_

_Billy_

* * *

Billy was seven years old and he liked to collect quarters. Not for the years engraved on them, or the designs from each state. He liked to have quarters for when people needed to ride a bus, or when they were short on change. Plus quarters were so big, it felt like a lot of money to hold and he felt rich, walking around with his bag of quarters in his backpack. It clinked and clanked and made him think of movies where princes would carry around huge gold coins. His mother always said if you have money to spare you should be generous and help people with it. So he made a rule that he wouldn't spend a single quarter on himself. Billy was good at counting and when he counted them the other day and he had 40 quarters. That had to be like... like a hundred dollars!

He lived with his foster family. A man he was told to call Jerry was his Foster Father. And woman he was told to call Carol was his Foster Mother. It was fitting that his foster Mother be named Carol this time, because it was so close to Christmas. They lived in a studio apartment. Imagine any studio apartment, and that was basically their home. Their was mattress on the floor in the corner and a sofa that could be pulled out into a bed. It was kinda dirty, and really dusty, but not everyone had the time for cleaning. Jerry was very busy. He didn't know what he did for a living. But he gone for most of the day. And you couldn't blame, Carol, because was sick. She had shots that she had to take and he felt really bad for her. Billy hated going to the doctor and having to get a shot, but Carol was so sick she had to bring shots home with her.

A dog had once lived in their room. Their were bite marks on the baseboards and animal scratches on the bottom of the door where they would scratch at (likely to ask to go potty). He liked the idea of having a dog and if he ever found somewhere permanent to live, he knew that would be the first thing he got.

Billy was in first grade and the school wasn't far from his apartment so he would walk there. He bundled up his coat before heading out and pulled on his gloves that had a hole in it, but he didn't mind. Then he sat on the floor to pull on his boots. When he was ready he looked in the mirror frowning. His Mom would tell him to wear a scarf. "Okay Mom," he whispered walking over to the garbage bag he kept his clothes in and pulled out a scarf wrapping it around his neck.

He left the apartment walking towards his school. He had walked this route a number of times already but today was the first day he noticed a pay phone. He blinked up at it. It looked old and grimy and some of the windows were cracked.

"Do you need to make a call little boy?"

A woman had stopped next to him. She was wearing a blue coat and had a matching scarf and bag. She looked pretty.

"Can I call my Mom?" he asked staring up at her wide eyed.

"Of course," she said smiling. "Here let me help you."

She opened the door on it and lifted the receiver putting it to her ear. "Oh good, it's still working. I think I have 50 cents."

Removing some change from her pockets she counted them out and put it on a slot on the machine. "Ok," she picked him up under his arms and sat him on a little metal table that stuck out by the phone.

"Alright, go ahead," she said handing the receiver to him. It was so big compared to him. He couldn't put his ear by the earpiece and talk in the mouth piece at the same time so he spoke loudly.

"Hello? Mom?" he asked.

And she brought a hand up to hide the snort of laughter that escaped her. "Oh, I'm sorry sweetie, you need to dial first. Here... I'll dial for you. What's your Mama's number?"

"..."

"Do you know her number?" she asked looking concerned.

"I don't know," he admitted. "What's the number to heaven?"

She suddenly looked like someone had promised to bake her cookies and then forgot. He instantly felt bad. He said something that made people look sad again. Billy had accidentally been doing that a lot lately...

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's okay. I'll ask Santa for the number. He'll know. He knows everything!"

"Yeah..." she said. He thought that would cheer her up, but it didn't. She picked him up setting him back down on the ground. "You do that kid..."

She hit a button and the phone made the same sound that his backpack would make, then she handed him the quarters. "Here, for the next time you need to make a call."

He looked down at the quarters that took up most of his palm. "Thank you!"

"Don't mention it," she sighed walking away looking worse than when he met her.

He put the quarters in pocket and went to school.

The first chance he got, he asked his teacher for a phone book. She was able to locate an older one and she brought it over to him. The book took up his whole lap and he tried to find Heaven listed in it's yellow pages. It wasn't there. So come recess, he used a marker write his letter to Santa when he suddenly realized. They would need a tree. Christmas was so close. But Jerry and Carol didn't have a tree yet. So he put the letter in his pocket and walked around the play ground over to a few pine trees in the corner of the yard.

Billy tried to pull on the tree limb, but the tree wouldn't budge. Trees were heavier than he thought.

"Can I borrow a piece of you Mr. Tree?" he asked. The wind rustled shaking the tree ever so slightly. That was "yes," in Tree right? He got out a pair of safety scissors from his bag and cut at the end of one of it's branches. It took the rest of recess before it finally broke free. It was about the length of his forearm. That should be enough. Christmas trees didn't have to be big after all.

"Sorry Mr. Tree," Billy said looking up at the big pine. "But thanks for letting me borrow this."

Before he left for the day he asked his teacher for an envelope and a stamp, which she happily provided. One his walk home he mailed his letter, one week before Christmas. That should be plenty of time.

Then he brought his tree home and propped it up in the corner. He was really quiet when he came in because Jerry and Carol were both sleeping. He used tin foil to decorate the tree, even made a tin foil stand so it would stand up. But it was all too silver so he got out a pack of gum and chewed the pieces and then stuck them on it as temporary lights.

Everything was ready.

Everything was all set for Santa.

If he had a phone number written on a piece of paper under his tree on Christmas morning. Then Santa was real... For the first time in his life, he didn't care how many quarters it cost him. He would be a little selfish and would talk to his parents at the payphone down the street until all his quarters were gone.

**The third one bled:**

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Please kill my Mother._

_Damian_

* * *

Damian was a small child. Small even for his age. Often being mistaken for six or seven on a good day. But his actual age was eight.

He spent part of his days in a castle far from civilization, the other days he would spend at his family's manor in Gotham. Both places were grand and extravagant, but in different ways. His family's castle was rich in ancient architecture. With little to no modern amenities. It housed ancient artifacts sacred to his family. Basically picture any medieval castle from any old story that you can imagine and that was basically their home. The walls were stone, the windows contained no glass. Everything was damp and often smelled of must when they didn't put the incense out.

Their home in Gotham was very modern. Appliances worked at the push of a button, and some others worked by voice command. The walls were marble with intricate patterns reminiscent of ancient styles but that was very much not fooling anyone. Their were screens on nearly every wall and even their windows could display any image they choose. It could show the outside world as any normal window or his Mother could change the scene to be a dessert, or a vast Forrest complete with animals walking by. He would rather enjoy any scene that displayed animals running about.

The two richest people in the world both happened to reside in Gotham. The richest, his Father. The second richest his Mother. So needless to say she was something of a celebrity when she went about in public, so much so that she would often drape her coat over his head when they would go by people wanting to take her picture. She didn't want him seen.

Father did not live with them. From what his Mother had said. Father did not even know of him. But everyone knew of Father and they all wanted him. They wanted his fortune, his knowledge in both business and technology, his alias as that flippant hero Batman, and...

Damian was his replacement. They couldn't have Father, but they had his son. Close enough. Right? Since Father did not wish to be apart of their family, it was his job to fulfill every vacancy his Father left open. He was expected to be as smart and business savvy as Bruce Wayne. He had private tutors on nearly every subject, all masters in their fields to make this so. He was expected to be as fast and resourceful of a fighter as Batman. He had trainers. Killers and martial artists alike all bestowing in him their skills to be just as good as Batman. He was expected to...

 _Beloved_ , a hypocorism she used to refer to father, was used one day to refer to him...

It was a name she continued to use to refer to him whenever he did or said something that reminded her of him. Which was becoming more and more often the older he got. In recent months, a day didn't go by when she didn't comment on how much like father he was starting to look. How his words were so like her beloved. How a simple glance her way is the same way that father would look at her. Damian didn't try to remind her of him, he would often actively try not to. But he didn't know the man, and it was difficult trying to go out of your way to not act like someone when you apparently resembled them so.

It hurt to think about it. Mentally, he understood why. Father was gone. She wanted an outlet to project her love upon, and he was the closet thing she had to him.

Emotionally he didn't understand at all...

He hated it.

He hated her.

But he couldn't hate her.

Damian had never even heard of Santa. To this day, he would have known nothing of the jolly red ruffian had it not been for a scarce reprieve one afternoon in which his Mother's attention had been called elsewhere. Leaving him alone with a television. He flipped through the channels until a Christmas movie came on and for the first time, he learned of Santa.

So Santa was an obese man, in a red fur-lined suit, who flew around the world bringing presents and granting wishes to all the good boys and girls. He supposed he qualified as good. He absorbed the teachings of his Grandfather. He worked hard with his trainers. He memorized the information set before him by his tutors. He obeyed his Mother no matter what she asked of him. He met everyone's expectations and more often than not he surpassed them. So, he qualified to be on this... Good List. He was sure of it.

It was not like him to take anything on faith. Especially not childish things. But... Magic existed. He had witnessed miracles with his own eyes. He had seen the dead walk, the elderly renew, and the broken heal from a glowing pool in the catacombs of their castle. So, it was not too much of a stretch to assume that an old fat man would fly around the world and that he might grant children a wish.

Damian was not given anything unless it was needed right then. So when he desired to write a letter to the fabled St. Nick he hadn't a proper paper or pen to write with. So he stole away into a storage closet late one night and rummaged until he found a piece of clean white paper. He hadn't the time to waste on finding a pen as well so he bit down upon his finger and wrote each letter across the page. It said: Dear Santa, kill my mother. Damian. Thinking back on the movie he witnessed he recalled the politeness the child had added with the simple word of please. Not certain if that was a requirement for the covenant he added it as an afterthought, sprawled in smaller letters at an odd angle to the rest of the wording. Sitting on the floor of storage closet he blew softly on the paper until the blood dried. Then he returned to his room and hid it. The next chance he got he slipped it enveloped and stamped into a mailbox with a week to spare before Christmas, which according to the movie was December 25th.

If his Mother was dead on Christmas morning. Then Santa was real... For the first time in his life, he wished with all his might on a clear impossibility.

* * *

_All three children were disappointed Christmas morning._


	2. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, the father of Ra's Al Ghul's Heir!

All these bits of children's hopes and wishes were collected in large bins and stored in a back room until they could be shredded. Chopped and torn into tiny little pieces big enough for confetti.

But not... this year.

This year was the year that a limo pulled up outside the mailroom and a man in a dark expensive trench coat accompanied by an equally shaded butler walked inside requesting to see the bins of Christmas letters. They had been told of this, but the postal workers still couldn't believe it. Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne was here at their little office. Seeing as this wasn't confidential mail they led him to the back where he picked up one of the first letters on top ripping it open.

"A video game... shouldn't be hard at all," he commented to himself.

"Sir... Are you really going to grant all of these Children's Christmas wishes?" asked one of the workers.

"That I am," he responded, but he paused briefly before adding. "Well I'm going to try."

Knowing how wild the wishes of Children could inevitably get their was bound to be a few wishes that he wouldn't be able to grant. Tim had given him the idea the year prior when they were watching yet another Christmas movie featuring children who woke up Christmas morning with no presents under their tree and commented how it probably wouldn't take much for someone really rich to just buy those kid's presents.

Thus an initiative started, and many of the biggest and richest families in the US had put their names on it. Most did so just for the publicity and good PR they would receive from it. So that year the letters to the North Pole were collected.

Several teams across the US were on it. Alfred however made a special request. He wanted all letters from children who asked for impossible things stating he would see to those letters himself. Thus the manor received several letters for Alfred around Christmas time and he would read and answer them when Bruce and Tim were out on patrol to calm his nerves as their being gone always made him nervous. Especially since the incident with Jason, that no one was likely to forget anytime soon, his nerves would at times get inconsolable. Reading the letters of the children, he would mark them with a post-it on exactly how best to go about their impossible wishes.

An example of some of the impossible letters that children would write, was one from a little girl who wanted her own spaceship and Alfred settled on giving them a life time pass to Space Camp every summer until they no longer wished to use it. It included a letter from Santa expressing that NASA needed the few Space ships in existence, but that she should study hard, attend the camps, and one day become an astronaut so she could help in space exploration.

The their was a young boy had requested an entire sled dog team. While Bruce had the means to get this for the lad, but it wasn't a good idea to just have 16 puppies sent to the family's home without warning. But Alfred did get in contact with the parents and received permission to send one dog to the boys home Christmas morning. With a letter stating for him to show Santa how well he cared for this one, and when he was older he could look into getting more.

Some of these letters didn't have return addresses. So it took a little digging and research to figure out where some kids lived. But other children simply couldn't be found. Their first year trying this, dwindled the letters down to four, with three days until Christmas. These four not only didn't have return addresses, but they didn't have complete names, and they asked for things not even remotely possible. One girl named Sammie asked that all her teachers blow up for Christmas because she didn't want to go to school anymore. This was ignored. But the remaining three concerned him greatly.

He sat in the Batcave reading them again and again.

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Please heal my Mother. She's hurt, and it's my fault. Please bring her back to Dad safe and healthy. I'll stay down here forever and ever and I won't ever leave again if you could just make her okay._

_From_

_Jon_

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Sorry to bother you, but if it's not too much to ask maybe you could get me heaven's number. I looked in the phone book, and heaven isn't listed. Let my parents know I just want to say hi. If they're not too busy._

_Thank you,_

_Billy_

* * *

_Dear Santa,_

_Please kill my Mother._

_Damian_

* * *

The names were generic. Jon, Billy, Damian. Their were probably countless thousands of children with those names across the states. Pin pointing the children on this alone would be nigh impossible. He tried running a fingerprint scan on the letters, but so many people had handled it in the mailing and the mass reading that their were too many prints to count.

He tried looking through hospital records at women who had been hurt or injured. He attempted to read through their causes but any that had the possibility of fitting the limited description described by the child either didn't have children named Jon. Either that or reports of their injury had likely not included the fact that they had been injured by their child. Most of the women who had described injuries from their children stated it was accidental and they recovered in a few days. Then their were stories of women whose children were teenaged or older and their child had attempted to murder them. This was very unlikely to have been written from one of them.

But one sentence concerned him greatly. _I'll stay down here forever and ever and I won't ever leave again._

This sounded as though the child was trapped somewhere and that panicked Alfred a little.

Then their was Billy who wanted only to speak to his deceased family. Heartbreaking as it was, it at least sounded as though they were well otherwise. He still felt the child deserved something... A present of some sort, perhaps even a scholarship to await when they were old enough to attend college. Something for a hurt orphaned child. He had a soft spot for orphans, considering how many of them passed through their manor at one point or another and especially since Jason was lost to them.

It was the last that concerned him the most though. This one too would have been promptly discarded like the girl who wished her teachers to blow up. But their was no reasoning. No explanation. Most children who wrote to Santa tended to justify their wishes. Stating reasons why they were good boys and girls and deserved these things (even if their reasoning were often misguided). This one was so short with an almost desperate "Please," added at an angle as an afterthought. Even more concerning than this, it was written in blood.

To test the blood they would have to have a large sample set to compare the DNA to, and every child in the United States was just too big of a range to examine.

When Bruce and Tim returned from paroling. Alfred brought the letters to Bruce's attention after he had seen to some of Tim's minor injuries and sent him upstairs to bed.

"It's possible it doesn't even mean what you think it does. Children get mad at their parents all the time. He probably wrote this in anger, and got over it the next day. I wouldn't worry about it," Bruce explained referencing the letter that had been written by the boy named Damian.

"But how many children do you know would write a letter in blood?"

"Children who have seen one too many occult movies," Bruce pointed out handing the letter back to him and moving onto the next one.

"This Billy child... sad sure... But lots of children are orphans Alfred. We can't adopt all of them," he pointed out, it would have sounded like a joke, if Bruce had been the kind of person to make jokes. He handed that letter to him too.

He read Jon's letter over one more time, "As far as this Jon kid goes. It's bargaining. Commonly the third step of the grieving process, the kid's clearly going though the stages. I'm sure whoever his Father is, they're helping him get through this."

He handed the final letter back to Alfred.

"Don't worry about them."

"But Sir..."

"Alfred, I don't want to be rude, but I have more pressing matters on my mind than children's Christmas wishes," he explained changing the computer from the hospital search process that Alfred had it scanning, to the criminal database so he could research the clues from their latest mission.

"Not worry Master Bruce, shall I fix you a drink?"

"That would be fine," he responded before he began typing away.

He went upstairs, and Alfred contented himself to store these letters away in a drawer. Perhaps someday, something in Master Bruce's travels would help them identify the children and he would be able to help them. Somehow.

Over the years, other letters were added to this drawer, other children in sad or desperate situations that couldn't be placed, and the letters belonging to Jon, Billy, and Damian were pushed to the back of that drawer as well as the back of his mind.

* * *

**5 Years Later**

* * *

"I'm sorry!" Jon gasped desperately crouching by their farm house closing this eyes tightly. His Father's hand covered his eyes and he heard the crackling of the flames in his ears. Their farmhouse was a decent ways from the barn, but he could still feel the heat from the fire all the way over here.

"Jon stay here, keep your eyes closed. I have to get the animals out," his father said, and he felt the pressure from his hand move form his face and gust of wind and he was gone from Jon's side.

He didn't dare open his eyes and kept them closed as tightly as he could. How could he let this happen again. Why didn't he just stay in ground like he was supposed to. Buried and tucked safely away where he couldn't hurt anyone. The heat from the barn fire dissipated quickly and he heard his Father's footsteps approach.

"Jon."

"I'm sorry!" Jon had pulled his legs up and tucked his face away in his folded arms.

"Jon," he said. "Open your eyes son."

"No."

"Son..." he put a hand on his head. "I'm here now. Open your eyes."

"No!"

He heard his father sigh softly and sit on the ground in front of him. "Why did you leave the cellar?"

"I heard people trying to steal the animals. I didn't want them getting hurt. I'm sorry."

"You should have called for me," he said.

"I know."

"Why didn't you—"

"You're busy," he explained. "I didn't know if you would get here in time."

"Jon, that's not an excuse. You should have stayed."

"I'm sorry."

"You promised me you would stay down there, no matter what. Remember?"

"I know. I'm sorry!"

"Open your eyes."

"No!"

"JON!"

The force behind his voice made Jon jump, feeling a little scared.

"I don't have time for this," he explained sternly. Though he must have realized how harsh he sounded, because when he next spoke he had forced deliberate softness into his words, "I left a robbery to come here. Open your eyes, I need to see that your heat vision is off."

Jon lifted his head reluctantly, and slowly he opened them, his eyes burned painfully. At least everything wasn't red anymore. His Father was in front of him out of focus slightly, but clearly in his Superman suit. The colors and large S were unmistakable even out of focus. He closed them again, because it hurt to keep them open too long.

"Okay," his Father said softly. He picked him up walking him back towards the cellar. Jon opened his eyes just before they went down and could see most of the barn was charred and smoking but not destroyed. The animals were next to it, seemingly unhurt. That was good at least...

He closed his eyes and again and didn't open them until he felt himself placed on his bed in the cellar.

"I have to go Jon, stay here this time until I come get you."

"..." Jon grabbed his blanket throwing it over his head in an effort to hide away.

Superman sighed putting a hand on his head. "It wasn't your fault. Just... please stay down here this time..."

A swoosh of air, and his father was gone again. Jon frowned. He liked their animals. When he heard people trying to take them, he thought it would be okay to go upstairs and scare them away. He scared them away alright. He hadn't even intended to use his heat vision, but... once it turned on he couldn't turn it off. Why could his Dad control his powers so easily, and why was it so hard for him...

He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. Jon didn't actually want to watch anything, he just didn't want to sit here in silence anymore. He covered his head with his blanket again listening to the words the woman on the TV spoke.

"As you know, Ra's al Ghul is one of Gotham's local billionaires and the head of a religious order known a the League. He has scheduled a press conference to officially announce the heir to his legacy as well as the next head of his religious order. For those who don't know, the League is a peaceful religious group who worship under a God they call Sensei. They work a lot in humanitarian efforts, and even perform miracles including but not limited to making the blind see, the deaf hear, and healing terminal illnesses once thought to be a death sentence."

He pulled the blanket down looking at the TV. His vision was still blurred but it was getting better. Slowly the words on the TV started to become legible and the woman's face came into focus.

* * *

Billy was in a coffee shop sipping on a small chocolate milk in the corner looking up at the TV that was displaying the news.

"Another few minutes and Ra's will make his announcement. Many are anticipating the heir to be Talia al Ghul the daughter of Ra's al Ghul himself. What do you think?" she turned to one of the other reporters.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken the League is a patriarchal society, so I'm not sure if Talia can succeed her Father in ruling over their order."

He looked away at that point. Adult stuff was boring. Why did anyone outside of the family care about who inherited a family's fortune, his mind drifted thinking about what it would be like to be rich. Not even a Wayne or Al Ghul level of rich. But even a, go into a restaurant and order whatever you wanted on the menu without checking how much you have on you, kind of rich would be alright with him.

He didn't have enough to buy anything aside from this chocolate milk, which was almost gone. Billy knew they offered water for free, but the waitresses looked unhappy when you come in and ordered only that. He supposed it was because most people didn't have to tip on a free water.

The people on the TV had suddenly erupted with the noise of many people trying to speak at once, so he glanced back up to it. A man was standing there looking like he could have been a mascot on a count chocula cereal box, and beside him stood a boy about his age. This apparently was the person that Ra's guy was naming his heir. He must be the luckiest kid in the world, Billy thought to himself.

The boy was introduced as Damian, and the reporters did what reporters do best asking all sorts of questions but Billy noticed the boy didn't answer any of them. His Grandfather did all of the talking.

"How old is your heir?" One reporter asked loudly.

"As many of you know," Ra's responded. "For safety and to assure a strong belief in our religion's core values, all children that belonging to the league are not allowed to be apart of the outside world until they turn 13, and today, just happens to be our young Damian's 13th birthday."

Billy frowned. The boy was older than him by a whole year. He would have bet the last quarter he had in his pocket that the kid was younger than him.

"Well, that will have to be all. We still have to celebrate his birthday. Thank you all for attending," Ra's said raising a hand as a visual sign to the reporters in the back who may not have been able to hear them, that questioning was over.

Billy counted out change for his milk and left a quarter for a tip on the table before leaving. That was it. The last bit of money he had brought with him prior to running away from his latest foster home. He was tired of being shuffled around from place to place. He had had a few homes he wouldn't have minded staying in, but one thing or another would happen he would get shuffled along somewhere else. It was better to be on his own anyway. He had officially been homeless for a little over a week now. The worst part, was having no where to wash your clothes. He only had two outfits, and he would wear one until it started to smell, and then he would wear the other. He had been using a laundry mat to wash the outfit he wasn't currently wearing but now that his quarters were gone, he was going to have to figure something else out.

Well lucky for him... he could become an adult. Any time he wanted. So maybe he could start a tab at a laundry mat. Like what his latest foster Father would get a bars. Where you didn't have to pay for something until later. He was pretty sure adults were the only ones who could get those.

He hadn't been able to do this very long, just recently within' the last month or so. It was awesome becoming an adult. But he would become not just any adult, a powerful one. Like... Superman kind of powerful. Ever since this change had happened, he would find himself wondering some nights who would win in a fight. Him or Superman. He was pretty sure he would.

Billy received these powers from a wizard called Shazam, and by saying his name, that made Billy change from his kid form into his adult form. It was pretty cool, but surprisingly unhelpful unless he was battling one of the various beings that would occasionally show up to cause havoc.

It was unhelpful because even though he was an adult he couldn't do any of the adult things he thought he would be able to. Like going to see an R rated movie. That was one of the first things he tried in his adult form but found he couldn't walk into the theater. Then he thought he would try alcohol. Adults seem to like the stuff, so he wanted to try some. Since you had to be an adult to try it, this was the perfect opportunity. But he found he couldn't purchase any despite having the money at the time. He couldn't physically hand the money over. He ended up buying candy instead. Billy soon realized, it was because he knew those things were wrong to do. Things that had age limits on them he couldn't participate in because deep down he knew he wasn't old enough, and that it would be morally wrong to do so.

He headed down the street running through his brain possible places he could sleep tonight. It was October so it was starting to get colder. A lot of the other homeless people liked to sleep under bridges. So he thought maybe he would try there. But their was already a number of people there and it didn't look like there was room.

So he kept walking until he found a junk yard, and noticed an abandoned car that was missing the front seats. The back seat was still in tact. This would be a great place! He could close the doors and the windows and wouldn't have to worry about bugs and stray animals. Smiling he opened the door. It made a loud creeek sound and he climbed in closing it behind him. The seats were pretty soft as well. It wasn't exactly night time yet, but he was tired, so he figured going to sleep early would be okay.

* * *

The flashing lights annoyed him. The large crowd was gawking up at them stupidly, their questions directed to his Grandfather. His role in this conference was simply to stand there. Be presentable. So he stood still, attempting to seem taller than he was by keeping his back straight and his neck held high.

"Well, that will have to be all. We still have to celebrate his birthday. Thank you all for attending," Ra's said. He placed a hand on Damian's shoulder leading him away.

But the questions from the reporters continued and the noise was thunderous when combined with the flashing camera lights. Still, he couldn't help but pick out one question in particular from a female reporter who hurried forward, pushing past others calling his name. "Damian! Damian wait! Tell us Damian! Who is your Father?"

Damian paused a moment just before he had been about to disappeared behind the backstage curtain and turned back to the reporter staring at her for moment. Giving the crowd enough time to fall quiet.

"We're not disclosing that information at the moment," Ra's assured her, and then added a slight pressure to the grasp on Damian's shoulder. "Come along Damian."

He still didn't move, but continued staring at the young woman and then. He answered her, "Bruce Wayne."

Her eyes widened, the Cameras began shuttering once again. Lights Flashing, another eruption of questions came at them in waves, but Ra's wasted no time ushering him backstage and out of sight.

* * *

Tim spat out his coffee in surprise, when the boy announced the name. "Seriously..."

"What's wrong?" Jason asked. They were both in the batcave, Jason was working on his motorcycle. Tim was at the cave's computer looking up in awe at the press conference he had been watching.

"Weren't you listening?" Tim asked. Jason grabbed a towel wiping his hands free of oil.

"No what happened?" he walked over to the screen. The news castors had wasted no time putting the headline up in bold words.

 **Billionaire** **Bruce Wayne, the father of Ra's Al Ghul's Heir!**

"Well that was nice of him to tell us," Jason teased.

"I don't think Bruce knows," Tim pointed out.

"What are the odds that he might be watching this on his date?" Bruce had left earlier that evening to go on a Date with his latest girl. They seemed to change every few weeks so he stopped bothering to attempt to remember their names.

"Damn, theirs nothing on this kid," Tim said after he had attempted to do some research, he had choose to ignore Jason's question.

"I wish I could be there to see the look on Bruce's face, I bet ten bucks it'll resemble to that Pikachu surprised meme."

"This is probably just a ploy by Ra's. I doubt he is actually his kid. Bruce isn't exactly the kind of man who wants kids anyway."

Jason folded his arms leaning against the Bat computer's dash, "Yeah, that's why we're all here. Because he _doesn't_ want kids."

"You know what I mean," Tim snapped. Still attempting to dig up something on this kid. "Outside of special circumstances."

"I mean, an illegitimate child conceived with one of your biggest enemies' daughters sure seems like a special circumstance to me," Jason joked.

The door that led to the manor upstairs opened and Dick and Alfred descended the stairs both talking in hushed concern. Jason laughed, "Tim look, another one of Bruce's kids, you claim he _doesn't_ want. What's up Dick?"

"I see you two have already seen the news as well," Grayson said staring up at the computer monitor. "Find anything on him Tim?"

He already knew Tim would have started digging up dirt on this kid pretty much as soon as he got the news. "No... nothing. They really did keep this kid out of public eye until now. He doesn't even seem to have a proper birth certificate or social security number. So we even know if Bruce has slept with Talia?"

Tim had turned to Grayson when he said that, in an almost accusatory manner.

"Like I keep tabs on who he's screwing around with," Grayson said shrugging. "It's none of my business."

Alfred signed rewinding the video he paused on Damian's face. "He certainly looks like Master Bruce..."

"I don't see it!" Tim snapped turning back to his computer still typing furiously.

Alfred reached into his breast pocket pulling out a small leather wallet. Dick glanced over and saw Alfred shift through a few photos. He had pictures of him, and Jason, and Tim in his wallet. Dick felt slightly touched that Alfred kept those sorts of things. After a moment or two he removed a photo of the boy on the screen. "Look here."

"Why do you have a photo of the kid!" Tim demanded pulling it from Alfred's hand to look closely at it.

"That is Master Bruce, shortly before his parents passed away," Alfred explained. It was then that Tim noticed the wear on the picture from years of being removed and replaced back into the wallet. Aside from that this kid had blue eyes. Bruce's eyes. The one on the screen's eyes were green.

Tim handed it back whispering a short, "Sorry."

Alfred replaced the picture and put the wallet back in his jacket.

"So... should we call Bruce or..."

"I'm sure he'll hear about it eventually," Alfred said softly. "Let him enjoy his date."


	3. *beep* *beep* *beep*

Clark opened the door slowly, peeking around the frame timidly. It wasn't like him, like Superman to be this faint-hearted. But he couldn't help it when he entered this room. She laid there, looking like a beautiful angel. Her black hair fell across the pillows like rivers of ink. Her lips slightly parted. Her chest rising and dropping slowly. The mask supplying her oxygen attached firmly. The machine that monitored her vitals beeped softly. The room was white and grayed, a curtain separated her bed from another patients.

He placed the flowers he brought her in a vase removing the dying ones which he put in the trash.

"Hello Lois," he said softly. He never knew if she could hear him, but he would talk to her anyway, in the hopes that she could. It hurt him a lot to visit her everyday. To see her like this and not be able to help her.

*beep* *beep* *beep*

"Lois," he reached out taking her hand. "If you can hear me, try to squeeze my hand."

He waited... Nothing.

*beep* *beep* *beep*

"It's okay, don't strain yourself. You'll come back to us when you're ready," he whispered squeezing her hand softly in return.

*beep* *beep* *beep*

"Jon's getting big. He's taller than when you last saw him. I wish he could visit you, but... I don't think the other people in this hospital would be safe. His emotions make him lose it, and... I don't think his mental state could handle it. I almost... wish I wasn't... you know. I wish our son was just a regular kid. He's losing out on so much, all because of what he inherited from me," he said whispering it to her. "All of this is my fault, and I'm so sorry Lois. I should have protected you. I should have predicted how this might affect Jon. I should have been prepared..."

During his visits, he would mostly just talk about the day he had, how their son was. Any articles of interest that he thought she might enjoy. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to apologize today. But... it just felt right. Lois deserved an apology. She deserved every groveling plea for her forgiveness that she could ask for. If she would just open her eyes, he would do anything she asked. He would give her anything she wanted in return for his failure.

"Oh, Mr. Kent hello," one of the nurses said upon walking in. She didn't knock.

"Hi," he answered softly leaning back in his chair.

She walked over to Lois checking her machines and glancing down at her clip board.

"Any changes?" he asked

"No... But I'm sure she appreciates you coming everyday," the nurse said softly. "If... if you don't mind my saying..."

"Don't," Superman said getting to his feet grabbing his coat. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Mr. Kent..." the nurse said softly. "Dr. Anderson wanted to see you the next time you came to visit."

"I'll find her on my way out," Clark said softly before leaving.

Going to her office from his wife's room had become ritualistic. Left. Left. Right. Two doors past the vending machines and he was there. He barely had to think about it. She had been her primary care doctor for the last three years. The door opened before he knocked. "Oh! Mr. Kent, hello. Have you visited your wife yet?"

"Yes, the nurse said you wanted to talk to me?" Clark was pretty sure he knew what this was about. His wife's medical bills had accumulated.

"Come inside," she said backing up to let him into her office. Her desk was as cluttered as always. The family portrait on it had added a baby since he first started entering her office. It was a cute little guy with a tuft of red hair like his Mother.

"How is the baby?" he asked.

"He's good," she said. "He started talking the other day. But... Let's discuss your wife."

"..."

"Mr. Clark, she's... She's been here for years. She's stable and her spine has been repaired as well as it can be. She—"

"When will she wake up?" Clark asked even though he already knew the answer. It wasn't the first time he had asked.

" _If_ she wakes up," the doctor put a major emphasis on the if before she continued. "She will be almost completely paralyzed with little to no hope of improvement. But... we have to face the very real possibility that she's not going to wake up. It's my professional opinion that... it... it might be kinder to just let her go. You're only keeping her here for you at this point..."

"My wife is stronger than you think she is. She'll recover," he had told the doctor this many times, but he was starting to believe it less and less.

Doctor looked concerned and folder her hands in an obviously disapproving manner, "How long do you plan to keep her in this state?"

"As long as it takes."

"And can you keep paying for her to stay here, as long as it takes?" she asked frowning. "I wish we lived in world where these things are free, but they're just not. The care that your wife needs takes money. And I know you're already behind on the payments."

"I know... I'll figure it out," Clark said getting to his feet he headed to the door. He didn't want to listen anymore. Clark knew he was behind on her medical bills and didn't need reminding of that.

"Mr. Kent," she said getting to her feet as he reached the door. "I'm doing everything I can, but their is a point you have to be an adult and just accept the real possibility that your wife isn't coming back."

"She is," he scoffed before throwing open the door with such force it left a large crack in the opposite wall. He heard the Doctor gasp fearful of the noise and the force he had used. He didn't care. He should have cared.

His visits were getting shorter and shorter, but it wasn't only because of the staff bringing up the debt. Knowing that this might really be the end for his wife made it harder to be in the same room with her.

* * *

"You sure know your champagne," his date said softly staring at her reflection in the glass.

"I should hope so. I do own four vineyards," Bruce meant it as an offhanded remark.

Though she was instantly impressed. She crossed her legs, her short skirt riding up ever so slightly as she leaned into him smiling. "Maybe we could take a weekend trip to one of your vineyards?"

"That could probably be arranged," Bruce said while at the same time knowing he couldn't ever be away from Gotham that long.

"Oooh what is this," she said finding a remote that had fallen in the cushions of the limo and was just barely visible after she moved closer to him and her weight had move the cushion aside to reveal it. "This wouldn't turn on a vibrator now would it?"

"It turns on the television," Bruce explained smiling. "Girls tend to not need vibrators when they're with me."

"Is that so," she said hitting the power button and a TV rose down from the ceiling. "Let's find some mood music then shall we?"

She started flipping through the channels trying to find the music station. Bruce's eyes were on the woman. Beautiful, blonde, legs for days. He didn't often think about settling down, but moments like these. Alone with a woman, his mind would sometimes drift to the the impossibility of settling down and having a family.

His eyes flickered to the TV for a but a moment when a head line flashed that caught his eye.

He launched out taking the remote rom her and flipping back to the station. There was the headline:

 **Billionaire** **Bruce Wayne, the father of Ra's Al Ghul's Heir!**

He sat there stunned, and then he pushed a button on the bottom of the clicker which would rewind any channel he was on to show what had previously been displayed. It would go as far back as a day's worth of footage, but he didn't need to go back that far.

"Well, that will have to be all. We still have to celebrate his birthday. Thank you all for attending," Ra's said standing beside a child who even Bruce couldn't deny resembled him. He put a hand on the child's shoulder to escort him away.

The reporters did what reporters do, and called out their questions long after conferences were done, they were asking various and typical questions, and one specifically shouted, "Damian! Damian wait! Tell us Damian! Who is your Father?"

The boy paused looking at the reporter, all the camera lights flashing in his green eyes.

"We're not disclosing that information at the moment," Ra's called out. "Come along Damian."

The boy still didn't move, and a moment later he answered her, "Bruce Wayne."

The camera flashes went crazy then, and he paused the screen when it was on a close up of Damian's face. Was this true? It couldn't be... Talia was Ra's daughter, so he had to be her son, and... When was the last time he slept with Talia. He quickly started doing the math in his head, and his chest sank when he realized that the estimated age of the child would just about correlate with how long it had been since he had last seen her. and last slept with her.

"Is this true!?" the woman asked gesturing at the TV.

"I don't know," Bruce admitted. The timing added up... but that alone didn't prove the child was his. The resemblance helped the argument. Though he still wanted to be sure.

"Bruce! Seriously!"

"You'll have to get out here, I'll pay for your taxi," Bruce said pushing one of the intercom buttons he instructed his driver to stop.

"We need to discuss this!" she snapped.

"No I need to figure this out," he explained. "Look I'll call you."

"Tsk, don't bother, and I don't need your money either," she snapped getting out of the limo at the nearest curb she slammed the door. He didn't have time to worry about her though, he grabbed a small laptop he kept in the armrest. The conference had been held three hours ago, but nearly all the stations were discussing it. He admitted, this would have been a top story. The two richest families in Gotham having an illegitimate child connecting them. It was no wonder they had nothing else to talk about.

He grabbed his phone scrolling through the contacts. Talia's name was still listed. He wondered if she had kept the same number after all these years. He hit call and put the phone to his ear. It rang for a few seconds.

"Beloved," she answered. After all these years, she answered the phone as if no time had passed.

"What the hell are you playing at Talia?"

"Playing? I am not playing."

"Do we have a son together or not?" Bruce asked getting right to the point.

"You never were one for small talk," she laughed. "He is yours, their is no mistake."

"..."

"This is good news Beloved. Come home. We could be a family, father would welcome you with open arms if you pledge your allegiance to the League."

"And kill and murder on their behalf too, no thanks."

"We are a peaceful religion—"

"You're a cult," Bruce interrupted. "That's all the League has ever been. A cult that's the guise for a world wide assassin organization."

"Oh Beloved, we help people."

"For the right price, I'm sure you do," he sighed. "I don't want to talk about your shady religion. I want to meet our son."

"Of course, we will be happy to meet you for dinner tomorrow. Shall we say eight?"

"Fine, I'll text you where."

"Until then Beloved."

He hung up. What the hell was he expecting... Bruce frowned. He didn't know what to think. But... If this kid was his son, he couldn't let him be raised by those people. They were murders, killers, and they wouldn't hesitate to turn this child into one of them... if they hadn't already...

* * *

Jon was crying. He wasn't even sure why. Their was nothing to cry about.

Everything was normal, as it had always been. He was in the cellar. It was cold, even with the heater. He had finished his homework. It didn't usually take him more than an hour or two to complete his assignments on any given day. His TV was on. Showing a random cartoon he had flipped to. He had his blanket wrapped around his legs and he had just finished eating some warmed up pizza from the fridge. It was exactly like any other day so what did he have to cry about?

Oh... yeah... He remembered now. His Father had been on his way home from work when something Superman related came up, and it was apparently going to take a while. His Father had sent him a text, letting him know he would be a few hours late.

Their was no reason that that should have made him cry. His Father had let him know he wouldn't be on time before, many times. So why was he crying? Why wouldn't the tears stop. He attempted to wipe them dry, but they just kept leaking. His eyes felt warm and they hurt so badly. He was trying really hard not to panic and he felt like he was about to. This was stupid... He didn't even know what he was upset bout. The TV was starting to look blurry from all his crying.

He was such a baby...

He was sure his Father never cried.

Superman never cried.

He was the son of a hero. Arguably the strongest man on the planet, maybe in the Universe. And here he was crying like a toddler because... what? His Father wasn't coming home on time? Pathetic... He was pathetic...

He wiped his face again sniffling loudly. It felt different. His tears felt different. He looked down. Their was blood all over his sleeve.

"What?" he frowned, confused, but the next second he jumped up and ran into the bathroom swinging open the door he looked in the mirror.

He hadn't been ready for the site that met him.

His eyes were glowing red, and blood was pouring down them like tears. He gasped at the sight and took a step back feeling his eye's burning more. Their was a loud crash and his eye lasers had shattered the mirror. The glass flew everywhere. He opened them again. The shower curtain began to burn. Jon bolted from the bathroom. He kept his eyes closed. Feeling around until he felt the edge of the bed, and he fell to the floor next to it. Right in the farthest corner. He kept them closed tightly. Bringing both is hands up to his face.

"Calm down," he told himself.

"Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm d—"

He paused. He could hear crackling, and he could smell smoke. Taking a breath he moved his hands away and very slowly opened his eyes. They still burned and everything was still fuzzy. But he could see he had caught the bathroom on fire.

He had to call for Dad.

His Father's hearing worked similar to human hearing only about a million times better. If his Father wanted to concentrate specifically on one noise. He could hear nearly anything on Earth. If you called for him. I twas like hearing your name called in a crowd of people. You pick up on it because, it's your name and you can pick it out from all the other noises and names in a crowded room. His Father could do that, except with the whole planet.

He stood up gripping the bed post, he was just about to yell for him when he remembered his Father's words the last time he had had to save him: "I don't have time for this, I left a robbery to come here."

What would his Father be leaving this time? Who would his Father endanger by leaving to come help him?

He could just leave on his own. But he wasn't supposed to leave. Though he knew his Father would understand his leaving due to a fire. It's not like his Father was _that_ dead set on the no leaving rule, that he wasn't allowed to leave to save his own life.

But... Reality check... Everyone would be better off if he wasn't here. If he was gone... His Father wouldn't have to worry about coming home early to check on him. His Grandparents could visit without worrying about being hurt by him. If his Mother ever recovered, she could come home and be safe and happy in their little farm house without fearing her child might kill her.

The longer he kept his eyes open the more they hurt. So he pushed himself back as far into the corner as he could get and closed his eyes tightly.

He did what small children tend to do when facing death. The eleven year old pulled his limbs in close and kept his eyes shut, wondering to himself if dying would hurt. Would it hurt? Dying this way probably would. But would it even kill him? His Father could go through fire like it was nothing. Would the fire even hurt him? He was scared to find out.

After a few minutes he suddenly realized that the fire wasn't what was going to kill him. It would be this smoke. It was billowing quickly from the bathroom. The fire (from what he could see when he chanced opening his eyes for only seconds at a time) had only just started creeping from the bathroom. But the smoke had filled the place in mere seconds. It was hard to breathe and it made him cough.

He started to panic a bit the harder it became to breathe. He pulled his pillow off the bed putting it in front of his face to keep the heat from scratching at his skin. Funny how the heat reached him long before the fire did, but the heat was almost just as painful as what he imagined actually being burned would feel like. Their was no turning back now. It was too dark to see anything, and he couldn't stop coughing. His chance to leave on his own was gone.

He didn't regret it, but the fear of actually dying and being gone was stronger than he thought. "Dad..." he whispered as quietly as he could before coughing again. Like all small scared children, he called for his Father when afraid. But he didn't actually want him to come. He just wanted the security blanket of being able to think he was going to be okay. To pretend that his Father was going to hear him. So he whispered his name between coughs.

* * *

Billy walked down the street scanning the sidewalks for discarded pennies and dimes. So far he had collect 34 cents. He knew it wasn't enough to buy any food, but if he kept looking it would be... eventually.

An arm got thrown around his shoulder, and he started letting out a gasp of surprise, "Damn kid, I ain't seen you in forever!"

"What?" Billy blinked up at the guy. He didn't know this guy, by his height and build he looked to be about sixteen.

"It's me, Jay," he said. "C'mon you remember me!"

He pulled Billy closer shaking him roughly in his excitement.

"I think you have the wrong person," Billy answered frowning.

"C'mon, how could I mistake that face," he said moving his arm from around Billy's shoulders to across his neck. It would have been a choke hold if he had been wanting to actually choke him. It became instantly apparent that this guy was trying to keep him there, and he had a feeling it was going to turn into a choke hold any second if he tried to pull away.

"I _really_ think you have the wrong person," Billy said more firmly.

"Do I?" the man laughed.

"OVER THERE!" shouted voices from behind them.

Now his grasp changed to a choke hold and Billy reached up attempting to pull his arm away. He was spun around to face the people who had shouted and Billy was relieved to see it was two police officers.

"It's okay officers, I caught him for you!" the man said loudly.

Caught? What was he—

Oh...

He understood what was going on. This guy had been running away from the police, and was trying to pass off the blame for whatever crime he committed onto him.

"Let him go," one of the officer's demanded. The teen released his grasp, and Billy coughed a little from being held so tightly.

"Put your hands behind your back kid," the officer demanded.

"I didn't do anything," he said frowning.

"I saw you steal that money and take off, that's why I pursued you," the teen said.

"You too," the officer demanded and shrugging the teen turned putting his hands behind his back and the officer cuffed him. The other walked up behind Billy placing him in a set of cuffs as well. Both Billy and the teen were told to stand with their fore head against the wall of the nearby building while they were searched. They found nothing on the teen, but when they searched Billy's pockets they found a stack of money a lighter and a baggy of flour.

"How do you explain this kid?" the officer asked.

"That's not mine," Billy explained frowning. Looking back on it, that's why that guy had grabbed him roughly and shaken him. So he could put that stuff in his pocket with his noticing.

"Sure it's not kid," the officer said.

"This one's clean."

"Alright you can go."

Billy heard them uncuff the teen, who smugly responded with, "Thank you for your service officers. I'm glad I could help you apprehend this punk."

Billy watched him leave out of the corner of his eye. He didn't bother trying to explain what happened. The officers weren't going to believe him anyway.

"You don't look like the type who does drugs kid. Who are you holding this for?"

He didn't move his forehead from the brick wall, knowing that was a sure fire way to upset the officers. They didn't like you doing anything you weren't specifically told to. This wasn't the first time he had had to deal with officers. Most of the time it was due to them being called out on domestic violence calls to the foster home he lived at. Or the time one of his Foster Mothers had gotten in a drunk driving accident (thankfully a minor one), but she had caused such a commotion that police were called and he was taken to the jail with her. He hadn't been in trouble that time, but the officers din't know what else to do with him. He knew how violent they could get from even the tiniest bit of resistance.

"It's not mine," he said again. He had no logical explanation for that being in there other than what actually happened, and their was no point telling a story they weren't going to believe.

"Fine don't tell us," the officer said. "We got all the evidence we need anyway. C'mon, you can come down to the station with us."

The cop grabbed his upper arm walking him down the street to their police car, they put him in the back closing the door.

Billy slumped down putting his feet up on the blockade that separated the front seat from the back seat. This wasn't how he had hoped today would go at all. The worst part was now he would probably get sent back to his most recent foster family. Which he didn't want. The foster Father was violent and had hit him more than once when he drank too much. He wished he could go back to Lynn. She had been a really nice foster Mother, but due to an emergency with her actual family she had to stop fostering and so he got sent to his recent home. Being sent to a foster family was like playing the lottery. Sometimes you'd win and get a nice family. Most of the time you'd lose and get stuck with people not so nice. Regardless, foster homes were temporary, and you never seemed stay anywhere too long.

He couldn't transform. Just Shazam it up and fly away. The cops were right there, if he did, Captain Marvel's secret identity would be revealed. He didn't know a lot about secret identities. But he knew you were supposed to keep them for a reason. Though... now that he thought about it. Did he even have a reason? Heroes kept their identities secret to protect family and friends from being attacked by their enemies. Right?

He didn't have any friends.

He didn't have any family.

He had nobody.

As the thought occurred to him a strange sense of loneliness seemed to sink into his chest.

The officers had started their drive, and were chatting among themselves on their way back. They seemed happy, it was just another day to them. Taking some punk kid in for questioning. They would finish their shifts and go home to their families. An average day. For Billy, today was the day that he realized their was no actual reason for him to be here anymore. If they got in a car crash right now, and he died. No one would miss him. No one would attend his funeral, and he would get buried in an unnamed plot at the city graveyard where other homeless people would get buried.

Captain Marvel had a reason to be here. He could help people, and save people. He would do far more good than Billy Batson ever would.

Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea. To let Billy Batson die, and just be Captain Marvel from here on out.

* * *

"HAAA!" Damian sent his blade straight towards Deathstroke's head and he blocked it with relative ease. Their blades crashed loudly, it was music to her ears. Talia was standing off to the side watching their battle. A smile on her face. Damian's skills were improving and the latest mercenary they had hired to train him was getting him closer to becoming exactly what she wanted him to be. The next batman, the new Bruce Wayne.

"Stop," Slade demanded and Damian paused mid battle. "How many times do I have to tell you. You're small, that makes you fast. Use it to your advantage and stop trying to copy me. The way I move doesn't work for someone of your size."

Damian frowned at that. "I'm not that small!"

"Their are dogs bigger than you," Slade remarked meaning the words to be insulting. "You're going to grow eventually, for now you have to take advantage of what you have, that includes your size. Remember that because if you don't take those words to heart, your next lesson is going to hurt, a lot."

He walked over to Talia who grinned, "This weeks payment has already been sent to you."

"Good, I'll be leaving then."

Slade didn't close the door behind him, but she waited until his footsteps died away before she approached her son. "You're getting better Beloved," she said running her fingers through his hair and down the side of his face. "Don't let his taunts discourage you."

Her fingers moved down to his neck running along the inside of the collar on his shirt, he pulled away, slowly, like silk sheets sliding off a bed. His Mother hated when he withdrew from her touch. Doing so slowly and offering an excuse was the best way of getting away from her without her getting upset. "I have to put the weapons away."

"The servants can do that Beloved."

"They never do it right," he lied picking up the various weapons that had gotten strewn about he replaced them on their proper stands. He picked up his sword last and was about to put it away when...

"Your Father contacted me yesterday, he wants to meet you."

"..."

"We'll be going to dinner with him this afternoon," she said. "Dress nice, first impressions are everything."

"I don't want to see him," Damian snapped back defiantly.

"If that were the case, why did you mention his name on TV?"

"..."

"I didn't plan on telling your Father until you were much older. You made this decision Damian. So you _will_ be going to dinner with us tonight," she snapped before heading to the exit, she stopped at the door adding. "And the elders have gathered to discuss your punishment for speaking out of turn. We will see them in an hour and go to dinner from there."

He heard the door close, and he put the blade he was holding back on the weapon's shelf feeling upset.

Why had he said it? Damian didn't want to see him. He already saw Batman and Bruce Wayne enough in his nightmares. He didn't want to see him in real life too. So why did he let them know? Their was no way stating it at a press conference of that size wouldn't have gotten back to Bruce eventually. He had been an idiot, and he shouldn't have said anything.

Perhaps a part of him did want to meet him, some morbid curiosity about the man whom he served as a surrogate for. The man the league, wanted so desperately to work for them. The man his Grandfather wanted so desperately to lead with him. The man who his Mother wanted so desperately to love her. That fucking man who abandoned all his responsibilities to be some glorified superhero taking in his own replacement children because he or his Mother weren't good enough to be apart of Bruce Wayne's family.

He hated him.

He hated his Father.

But he couldn't hate him.

The man was still his Father and just like his Mother their was a part of him that just couldn't bring himself to despise him, them. Why did parents get this automatic reprieve for their sins just because of the biological accident of giving you life? He looked out the window but stared more at his own reflected image rather than the depiction beyond it. It was a child's obligation to express their gratitude for their own existence in the form of loyalty, love, and service to their parents. He obeyed his Mother and her family without question. Maybe, what he really worried about, was that his Father, and his family would expect the same from him. Maybe they would ask for more, and what would happen to him if he couldn't meet those expectations? What if he was too weak? The Dark Knight had a legacy behind the name. A sense of terror and fear that almost felt like a legend. But one they could live and see with their own eyes. It was hard enough being the heir to the Demon's head, the next in line to head the league, as well as the great grand-son of the living God who had once walked this earth. Now he had to be the son of the Dark Knight as well.

What his Mother demanded of him, late at night, in her room. Would his Father expect that of him too. All of it sickened and secretly terrified him, but if he ended up being expected to serve as his Mother's replacement in his Father's bed as well... he didn't think he could handle that. But knowing himself he would try. He only had one purpose on this planet, and that was to serve his parents.

Acts of service as the thank you for granting him the _gift_ of life.

That sentence had been drilled into him from a young age.

Maybe the service expected of him wasn't really worth this _gift_ , and he tried so hard, but he was beginning to think he wasn't strong enough to fulfill everything expected of him. He was already at his limits, both physically and mentally with his maternal family's demands on him. Adding whatever expectations his Father would have for him might just push him over the edge.

Well, they could have it back, the _gift_ , if they wanted it. If he displeased them.

But he would try... He owed his parents at least that much he supposed, for the gift of his life, which people often told him he was supposed to be grateful for. Though he had yet to see what was so great about it.


	4. The Fears of Great Men

Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman had all gathered to face the week's latest threat. An alien creature with impossible strength. It was throwing cars and crashing into buildings. Superman had showed up late to the party having left a work meeting early in order to assist. Wonder Woman lassoed the creature pulling back it's head.

"Now Superman!" she called.

He lunged forward.

"Dad."

He paused mid-punch upon hearing the voice. It had been so soft, he almost thought he hadn't heard anything. Having been temporarily distracted, the creature had an opportunity to punch him sending him flying into a nearby car.

"Get your head in the game Superman!" Batman snapped before using one of his many tech devices to attack the thing, Superman was hardly paying attention. He was too busy focusing the sound he had heard. It had been Jon's voice... but it wasn't loud, or alerting. It didn't sound as though he was calling him. Perhaps he had just decided to video chat his Grandparents. While he did not allow them to visit Jon, he was of course allowed to contact them at any time via text, call, or video chat. Perhaps they were just talking and he was catching when Jon would mention him.

He directed his attention back to the creature wreaking havoc and was just about ready to enter the fray when he heard it again.

This time he turned focusing his all his attention in the direction of his home, looking to see if everything was alright. It wasn't... Their was smoke billowing out of the cellar his son was in.

"No..." he hurried off.

"Where is he going?" Wonder Woman asked as she punched the creature back sending it into a fire hydrant. Water spewed out like a geyser. The few citizens who were still in the vicinity hurried away from the spewing water.

"I don't know," Bruce turned to Wonder Woman. "We have to focus on this."

It took far longer for Wonder Woman and Batman to subdue the creature without Superman around, but they eventually managed it when a couple more members of the Justice League turned up. When it was over Wonder Woman looked rather upset as she wrapped up her lasso. "Seriously what was so important?"

"I'll find out," Batman said summoning his plane.

* * *

Damian was dunked under the water again before he had completely had a chance to catch his breath. Strapped to a chair by his wrists, ankles and across his chest he attempted to clear his mind forcing back the clawing need to gasp for air. After a few seconds he was pulled up again by the pully system that had been rigged. He coughed, forcing the water in his lungs out as quickly as he could because he had no way of knowing how soon they would drop him again.

"Once again Damian," one of the Leagues elders spoke up. Their voice soft and calm as if they were talking over tea. "Why did you reveal your Father to the world before we wished it?"

"I don't kno—"

They dropped him again. The cold water flooding overtop of him again.

"Elders," Talia whispered completely calm, she leaned against the tank. "This was sooner than planned true, but Damian's actions have put us one step closer to possibly getting Batman to join us at last. I'm sure that was Damian's thought behind his actions."

"Let's find out," Ra's said signaling the servants to pull him up above the surface again. They waited somewhat impatiently for his coughing fit to subside and then Ra's spoke. "Your Mother says that she believes you had a plan in revealing this information early. To bring the Detective to us sooner than anticipated. Is this true?"

Damian took a few more seconds to cough and try to clear his lungs. He glanced at his Mother who was glaring in his direction, a small smile on her face. She was trying to give him an out. A small act of kindness he supposed.

"Yes," he forced out between coughs.

"Do you truly believe you can get him to join the League?" asked another elder who spoke to him completely in Arabic.

"I do," he answered responding back in the same lanaguage.

"Do you anticipate... that you could make this happen, say... before the years end?" Ra's asked in English.

Their weren't many months left in the year to begin with, and he knew they only wanted to hear one answer from him. Whether he actually thought he could do it or not was irrelevant.

"Yes Grandfather," he answered coughing again. He closed his eyes as they had started burning from the water.

One of the elders seated near to Ra's looked up at him. "You are our Messiah, the descendant of our Savior. You hold a high position in the League and in our family. But you are not free from punishment if you choose to go against the wishes of this court and the wishes of your Grandfather. Apologize for your defiance and ask our Lord for forgiveness and we will let you go."

"..." Damian opened his eyes slowly, and choose only to stare defiantly at his Grandfather.

Ra's glanced at the servants, and they let his chair drop again.

"You have raised a strong willed child Talia. But he should not be above asking his Grandfather's forgiveness," Ra's explained frowning.

"Was I supposed to raise a weak minded child? No Father, my son is your Grandson, the great grandson of our God Sensei. He has the blood of Gods and the Dark Knight in his veins. If he defies you, then that defiance is apart of Lord Sensei's plan," she explained turning to the tank she watched her child struggle to breathe. "He begs forgiveness from no one, not even you, Father."

Ra's eye's narrowed. He seemed torn between his need of an obedient Grandson, and one that is strong and confident in his role as a heir to their God's legacy.

"Leave him under until dead if that is your wish," Talia said softly. "But he will not back down on this note. Not for a second, and all you will achieve is the loss of his mortal form which still holds benefit for us."

He took his time, reaching out he took a sip from the saucer of wine before him before he answered, "I suppose so daughter."

He motioned for the servant's to raise his chair again. Damian could barely catch his breath after being left under so long. He was coughing so hard he thought his lungs were going to rip apart.

"Join us here Damian," Ra's demanded. The servants pulled his chair aside releasing him from the restraints and he walked over sitting before the Elders and his Grandfather on the floor. He was soaked, freezing, and he kept stifling his cough as best he could to not cause too much of a disturbance.

"You will meet your Father. I believe he will see reason to sharing custody of you every other week. By years end, you are to convince him to join us. Do you understand?"

"Yes Grandfather," he answered. He could feel the water still residing in his chest.

"Their is the matter of your public appearance as well," one of the Elders said softly. "You are thirteen, which means the world now has permission to cast it's gaze upon you. You are the face of our religion now, a figure head. You will conduct yourself accordingly while in public."

"I understand," he answered.

"Then you are dismissed. Go and prepare to meet your Father."

Damian bowed placing his forehead upon the ground for a few seconds before he stood and followed his Mother from the room.

"You were brilliant Damian," she said smiling walking along in his wake until they were down the hall a good ways and in Damian's room. "I shall choose your outfit for our meeting."

Damian motioned to show he heard her, but proceeded straight to the restroom where he proceeded to cough up and vomit the excess water that he had accidentally consumed. His lung hurt terribly and he couldn't help but cough for a good twenty minutes before it felt like his lungs had returned to some degree of normalcy. He left the bathroom shivering. Seeing this his Mother grabbed one of the extra blankets from the end of his bed and threw it around his shoulders.

"This suit is very much like the sort your Father wears," she explained smiling. "It's expensive too, so it'll fit his tastes."

Damian walked over sitting on his bed. He just wanted to sleep and was partly wishing they could just cancel the dinner.

"If your Father sees fit, you may go home with him after dinner and our alternating weeks can start then," she explained. "I've packed a few suitcases for you if that turns out to be the case..."

"Yes Mother."

He was only half listening.

"It will be your job to convince your Father to join us," she said as she added a few last minute things to his suitcases. "You're the last hope for this to happen. I fear if our child is not enough to bring him to my side then nothing will be, I will not tolerate failure on this front Damian. He is to join us, by any means necessary."

"I understand," he whispered softly staring at the floor. It was very difficult to keep his eyes open.

She sat down what she was holding and slammed the suitcase shut. It caused Damian to jump slightly from the sound, as he had been about to fall asleep. She walked over to him physically lifting his head up by placing her hand under his chin. "You look tired Beloved, do my words bore you?"

"No," he answered. "Forgive me Mother, I'm listening to you."

She smiled. Damian begged forgiveness from no one. No one, but her that is.

"You know how to ask for my forgiveness," she said softly reaching up to move his damp hair out of his eyes.

* * *

Jon heard his name being called and felt himself being shaken slightly. Just as soon as he heard it things went dark again. He drifted in and out of consciousness for a minute or two, until he opened his eyes weakly seeing his Father's face for but a moment, before his eyelids proved too heavy to keep open and he closed them once more drifting out of it again.

"Jon!" Superman stared down at his son. His face was streaked with blood, but he didn't see a wound on him. Which wasn't necessarily a surprise since he had inherited some of Superman's ability to heal quickly. Still what had happened? What caused that fire? His son was breathing weakly, and he had been trying for several minutes to wake him. "Son can you hear me?"

He shook him lightly again. "Wake up, Jon! Please look at me!"

"It's time to get up?" he mumbled weakly. He seemed to think Clark was waking him for the day but he didn't open his eyes, and that's what Superman needed. If he had been here… if he had been here instead of work and fighting enemies. Maybe this wouldn't have happened.

"Son, you need to wake up. Open your eyes, please."

He heard the sound of Batman's plane approaching and he sighed. He didn't need this now. He wrapped his cape around to shield his son from view. Clark didn't know how the league would react to the knowledge of an unstable mini-superman's existence. Their was already enough concern about his own powers and he could control his (most of the time).

Batman disembarked from his plane after landing walking up behind him.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"You can't just leave a fight in the middle of it!" Batman explained. "The league relies on you to be present. When we have mission other crimes and issues can wait."

"Batman I don't have time for this!" Superman looked angry. It was an odd thing to see. Even in battle, Superman didn't often get angry. "Leave! Now!"

Batman looked around at the smoke billowing from the underground cellar nearby. Clearly he had come here for a reason. He turned back to Clark who he realized hadn't turned around, but looked over his shoulder instead. His cape was billowed out, and it was very apparent he was hiding something. "What's going on?"

"Just leave," Superman snapped.

"Clark!"

Superman's eyes widened. He hadn't been aware Batman knew his identity.

"Clearly something was important enough for you to leave us mid battle, so what's going on?"

Sighing, he turned pushing his cape aside, so that Bruce could see Jon clearly.

Okay... He had left to save a child. He supposed he couldn't blame Clark for that one.

He hurried over kneeling beside the child as well. "What happened?"

"He was in that," Superman indicated the fire.

Bruce pulled a box from his utility belt opening it he removed a mask which he put over the child's mouth. It had a small tank attached and their were a number of buttons on it. Batman pushed one of them and a light on it turned green.

"What is that?" Superman asked.

"Oxygen," Bruce answered. "He probably inhaled too much smoke. Where else is he injured?"

He was looking at the blood smeared across his face.

"He's not injured... anymore..." Superman added softly, and Batman felt a strange feeling wash over him.

"Whose kid is he?"

Superman closed his eyes upon being asked that. He knew Batman would ask that eventually and he really hadn't wanted to answer. But he supposed he couldn't hide it, "He's mine."

Their was only a moments surprise that seemed to cross his masked face, and then he replied with a simple, "I see."

He reached into his belt taking out a flashlight and he opened the child's eyelids with his fingers to shine a light at them. You could tell a lot by watching how a person's pupils reacted to light, but their wasn't much of a chance to test that because the boy's eyes suddenly shown bright red and Bruce pulled back as his heat vison fired. Clark blocked the beam with his own arm and the boy, seemingly awake now, groaned and reached up covering his eyes in obvious pain. He had knocked the mask off, which laid in the grass beside him. A fresh tear of blood fell down from his eyes rolling down his cheek.

"Dad..." he called weakly.

"I'm right here," Superman said the boy curled in closer to him still covering his eyes.

Batman picked up the mask and handed it to Superman, "He should keep this on for a little while, the light will turn red when the oxygen's run out."

Superman nodded putting it back over his face and Jon clearly didn't want to wear it because he almost immediately tried to pull it off, but at Superman's urging he kept it on.

"What's his name?" Bruce asked.

"Jon." It was strange, just how broken Superman looked. It was an odd expression to see on the face of one of the world's strongest champions.

Bruce reached over to the mask and hit a button on the device and after a few seconds Superman felt Jon slump unconscious against him. Before he could ask Batman answered his question, "I added something to make him sleep. It'll help me examine him properly."

"No," Superman answered. Though his sleeping was probably for the best, he didn't want him examined. "He doesn't need to be examined."

"Is your son ill?" Bruce asked sounding concerned.

"Something like that..." he answered, using his cape to attempt to clear Jon's face of the blood. "I don't understand. Why did his heat vision make his eyes start bleeding?"

"Clark, let me run some tests on him?"

"No."

"I might be able to help him."

"You've helped enough, genuinely, I thank you," he said getting to his feet he began carrying his son up to their house.

"Clark..." Superman stopped mid-step.

"He'll be fine, he heals like I do. Just... not as fast. Besides, I can't let anyone run tests on him, he doesn't react how humans do, and the first thing the government will do upon finding out he's half kryptonian is take him away. I don't want the government getting ahold of him thinking they can turn him into some sort of lab rat," he explained.

"Did I say the government? No, just me. I want to run some tests on him. To help him."

"To run any sort of tests he would have to go to a hospital," he explained. "They'll ask questions. Besides, I can't risk Jon being around large groups of people and if you're referring to the Justice League facilities, I don't trust them either. They're already worried enough about how much power I have, and I can control them. I have no clue how they'll react knowing a child has my similar abilities but he can't."

"He won't have to go to a hospital, and we won't take him to Justice League headquarters. The lab I'm referring to is a personal one."

"Yeah sure," Clark said shrugging his words off. "Is your alter ego that of a doctor?"

"No. But I'm serious," he answered. "My lab is at the Batcave."

"..." Superman looked down at his child. He didn't like this plan. Batman was... a co-worker. He knew nothing about the man outside of his being one of the many masked heroes he would fight with. Clark trusted him in the field, but that didn't automatically mean he trusted him with his son's care.

"No… he just… He just needs me to be there for him, and I haven't been," Clark said softly. "Please tell the League I'm resigning."

"By resigning, do you mean you quit being Superman too?" he said looking genuinely concerned at Superman's declaration.

"If that's necessary…"

"Clark you don't have to do this," Batman got to his feet.

"He's my son. He's all I have left. The world has the Justice league. They have Diana, and they have you. Not having Superman won't matter," he explained and with that he took off into the air with his son in a matter of seconds, they were gone from sight.

* * *

Going to the police station hadn't been as bad as expected. Since Billy was a kid, he wasn't put in a cell. But they had handcuffed him to his chair near the officer's desk who was putting all the arrest information in his file for what seemed like forever. Oh, that's another thing. He had a file now. An official criminal record. They did eventually get him something to eat which was worth the trip he supposed. He had been really hungry.

Then he was moved to a waiting room, that had a couch in it and a TV in the corner. It was muted and the clicker was nearby it. But he didn't think it was a good idea to go flipping through channels when he was supposed to be in trouble. He had heard them lock the door, but he didn't get up to test it. After an hour he started debating saying his magic words that would ensure he could leave there right now. But he decided against it. He would have to break something to leave here, and that wouldn't be very nice. Someone would have to pay for it.

After some time a woman was brought in. She had on a suit and was holding a large stack of papers. Billy sighed upon seeing her. He supposed it was unavoidable, that they would call social services on him. She sat down across from him and began asking a number of questions. She wanted to know where he had been staying and why he had left his latest foster home. He told her about his foster Father. How he would get violent when he got drunk, and he told her she might want to stop sending kids there. Their had been two other kids there when he left.

"I'm sure he's not as bad as you say," she explained. "What's the real reason you left?"

He frowned. She didn't believe him. He didn't really expect her to. Mr. Graves was a charismatic guy when he wanted to be and when he wasn't drinking. He also had a nice house, and a nice car. One thing he had learned while being in the system was that the social service people were more likely to believe abuse when the foster family didn't keep up appearances. Families with run down houses, mismatched furniture, and hand-me-down clothes. Those sorts of places. Mr. Graves wore suits, looked presentable, spoke elegantly, and had a nice job. Those sorts of families were the ones no one ever believed could do wrong.

He leaned back on the sofa, choosing to stare up at the ceiling. "I just wanted to."

"I see," she answered. "Billy, you realize how dangerous this world is don't you?"

"..."

"You can't just run away from the people who take care of you. You're in Mr. Graves' custody, and he is just a nice man who is trying to help out by looking after children until they find a permanent home."

"Sure..."

"We can't keep finding new families for you Billy... Their are only so many foster families in Fawcett city," she said shuffling through her paperwork. "We called Mr. Graves to come get you. He was worried sick."

"..."

"Then their is the matter of your new police record," she said in a bit of an accusatory tone. "I talked them into putting you on probation, you'll need to attend school regularly, meet with your juvenile probation officer once a week for six months and you'll have to attend counseling twice a month."

"..." he sighed.

"Anymore charges and you may very well find yourself in a Juvenile Detention center."

"What's that?"

She looked up from her paperwork, seemingly a bit confused that he didn't know what that was, "It's jail. For people who are too young to go to an actual jail."

"Oh..."

"Look, Billy. A lot of kids would like to be in your shoes and end up with a nice foster family like the one you have. Please don't blow it. I've seen too many kids ruin their lives based on one bad decision. Do what's right and keep your nose clean."

She got to her feet heading towards the door when the tv in the corner of the room started displaying a news story. She grabbed the clicker to the TV and turned it up. Billy was sitting with his back to it, he hadn't moved from his seat, but he could hear it. The station was covering Captain Marvel and the save he had done a few days prior to rescue a child who had been about to be hit by a car.

The woman smiled. "There you go," she said happily. "See this is why you need to toe the line and be a good kid. Someday you might grow up and be able to help people, like the Captain here."

She left the room at that point, and Billy sat there keeping his back to the tv.

Someday could be today, if he just said the magic word...

* * *

Bruce had his meeting with Talia and his son that afternoon, he wasn't looking forward to it. It wasn't as though he didn't wish to meet his son (assuming he actually was). It was mostly Talia that he didn't want to see.

He went straight to the Batcave putting in the information on the latest alien they fought into the computer. This was technically the first time he had been back since the announcement about Damian. So he was waiting for the inevitable.

"Sooooo," he heard Jason say as he walked up behind him. "Watch the news lately?"

"Yes," he answered without turning to face him.

The others seemed to flood in upon realizing he was home and he heard them whispering among each other. Even Alfred was in on the whispers, so he turned his chair around to face them. They all stopped mid-whisper waiting for his reply.

He sighed, "I have a meeting with Talia tonight."

As though this were the opening of a flood gate they all started to bombard him with question and he had to hold up a hand to silence them, "Look, I know as much as you do right now."

"He does look like you Master Bruce," Alfred said softly.

"I noticed," answered spinning his chair back around.

"You're getting a DNA test right?" Tim asked hurrying over to his other side.

"Of course I will, but I don't need to in order to know he's my son. Like Alfred said, look at him…" he pulled Damian's picture up on the Batcomputer. He looked to much like him to not be his kid.

"Other than his eyes, their doesn't seem to be much of Talia in his face, does there?" Jason pointed out frowning up at the picture.

"I imagine Talia will shine through in the child's personality," Alfred pointed out. "Though I have to admit, that's not much of a comfort."

"The League is one of the biggest cults in the world," Tim pointed out. He tapped away on the keyboard and beside Damian's picture appeared articles about the League's practices. "They're dangerous not only because people genuinely believe in them, but they also produce actual results. We're talking about healing life threatening injuries, and as we all know, bringing back the dead."

Dick put a hand on Jason's shoulder because he had started looking upset at those words.

"They view Talia and Ra's like they're living Gods," Tim continued. "And now that Damian's been introduced to the world many Leaguers are calling him a Messiah even in the short time since he's been introduced. People are saying he's going to lead the populace into a new era of peace, and be the future leader of the world."

"So what you're saying is he's going to be a spoiled brat," Jason pointed out.

"I mean, they raised this kid into thinking he's a God. I'd be surprised if that didn't go to his head at least a little," Tim frowned looking down at Batman. "We probably shouldn't have him here…"

"Why not?"

"Cause this is where he Batcave is located," Tim answered in a matter of fact tone. "And I imagine he won't be above snooping around."

"Talia knows I'm Batman. The Al Ghul's have know for years," Bruce pointed out and Tim looked slightly shocked by that.

"You told them!" he frowned.

"This was long before you joined us Tim. What will be surprising is if he doesn't know."

"What's even more surprising is how easily I got in here."

They spun around at the declaration to find Superman landing beside the Batmobile.

"Superman!" Dick frowned, and here none of them were wearing their masks. Batman was still in his uniform but his mask was on the dashboard beside him.

"Not really, the sensors picked you up five minutes ago, I just disabled them to allow you entrance," Batman spun around looking up at him.

"And here I was trying to be stealthy."

"Seriously are we just telling everyone?" Tim snapped feeling rather annoyed that this was the first he was finding out about Talia knowing Batman's identity, and now Superman knew it too. "I could just schedule a press conference, it would be easier."

"I found out Superman's identity a while ago," Bruce pointed out to Tim. "I expect he just wants to return the favor."

"It's only fair," Superman added before looking around the cave with interest.

"Well if we're all doing introductions," Dick said stepping forward he held out his hand, "I'm Richard Grayson, I was the first Robin, now I'm Nightwing."

"I've seen you around," Superman said shaking his hand. "I'm Clark Kent."

Tim's expression perked up at the name, "You're that reporter from the Daily Planet."

"You're good," Superman said. He walked over and shook his hand next. "And you are?"

"Tim Drake, the current Robin."

Jason stepped forward taking his hand next, "And I'm Red Hood, or just Hood for short. I was the _best_ Robin."

Clark smiled at that, knowing it was all in jest. Then he turned to Bruce. "And you are Bruce Wayne. It's nice to officially meet you as well."

"How is your son Clark?" Bruce asked.

All the Robins and Alfred glanced at Superman when that was mentioned. Superman had a kid!?

"He's fine. He was still sleeping when I left him," he explained. Dick thought it was weird to see Superman look nervous, but he did. "Look, I didn't just come here to even the score on knowing one another's secret identities..."

"Why are you here then?" Bruce asked, though he was sure he already knew.

"To give you a warning," Superman said sternly. "I know you Batman. And I know I'm not good at being a bad guy, but I want you to take this threat seriously. I don't want to see you anywhere near my son."

The air in the room shifted and Dick let out a low whistle when he realized this hadn't just been a social call.

"I can't do that," Batman responded to everyone's confusion.

"Funny, I'm not even surprised," Superman answered. "I'm am however prepared to use force if I have to, it would take next to nothing for me to completely destroy your little cave."

"Then you will have ruined the best chance your son has at getting the help he needs."

Superman frowned at that.

"Your son has the potential for planet destroying powers that he can't control. That sort of power cannot be allowed to go unmonitored," Bruce explained frowning.

"You mean ungoverned."

"I'm not looking to control your son's powers Clark, but you better than anyone should know what's at risk."

"I do. That's why I'm keeping him away from anyone he might hurt."

"You didn't keep him away from your wife."

"..." Superman's eyes narrowed. Batman had clearly hit a nerve. Jason and Tim even moved to the side not wanting to be in the direct line of fire if things got out of hand.

"I learned about your identity before you married," Bruce said. "In recent years I didn't feel the need to investigate you further than knowing your name and your job. After I met your son I did some digging. Your wife went into the hospital years ago for injuries sustained during one of the Justice League's battles, only that was just the story you told them. I suspect your son very nearly cut her clean in half with his heat vision didn't he? That's what her medical records would suggest."

"Those records are private! How dare you!"

"I also know you're out of money. You can't pay to continue having her kept alive. She's going to die soon, if you don't count her current state as being dead already."

"Stop talking," Superman glared his hands had balled into fists.

"Don't worry about her Clark," Bruce said softly. "I took over her medical bills, moved her to a nicer and more private ward in the hospital. I also have some of my best researchers looking into improving her condition and get her out of her comatose state."

"And let me guess," he glared furiously. "You're doing all this in exchange for my letting you cut my son up and experiment on him?"

"First off, any research I do wouldn't involve cutting your son up. This isn't a science fiction movie. Secondly, their are no conditions. Whether you let me examine him or not, your wife's care will be paid for. So don't worry about that. I just want to help you and protect this planet from an inevitable end that I fear will come if you don't get your son some help soon."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You'll be present, for all of it. If you say no to an experiment, we simply won't do it. The only thing I ask is that you don't quit the Justice League, and you continue being Superman. The world needs Superman far more than it needs Batman."

"..." he finally stopped looking angry for once, but the broken expression from before was back. "I can't... After today... it's too dangerous to leave him alone anymore. I have to watch him."

"Let him stay here," Bruce offered.

"What?" Superman and Tim had both said that at the same time.

"While you work and perform your duties with the Justice League. He can be here. Someone is always home, so their will always be someone here to watch him."

"Bruce... he could destroy your home," Superman pointed out.

"So I pay to fix it. No big deal, when my boys were growing up I was constantly having to have walls and roofs repaired from their various antics," Bruce explained.

"And most of the time those were accidents," Jason pointed out jokingly.

Bruce threw a glare in his direction and the smile on Jason's face fell. "I mean they were all accidents."

He shuffled behind Dick who was tall enough to interrupt Bruce's line of site.

"He... he could hurt your family," Clark explained genuinely looking worried.

"You really think my family is that weak that they can't handle a pint sized Superman?" Bruce did look slightly offended by that. "Anyway, it'll be fine. We'll set up a room for him and no tests or research will be conducted unless you're present."

"..."

"Clark," Bruce walked over to him. "I really think this will be the best way to help your son, and if at any point you change your mind, you can go back to whatever plans you had. At least let me try."

Clark didn't like this at all... But... What else could he do? He had part of his mind focused on listening for Jon and he could hear him stirring awake. "I'll think about it," he said before he flew out of the cave and back to his child.

* * *

It took a few hours for Mr. Graves to get out there, but when he arrived he was dressed in his business suit. He smiled when one of the officers came over to talk to him. Billy had been brought back out to the main waiting area so he could see when he entered. Mr. Graves and the officer were too far away for Billy to hear so he wasn't sure what they were discussing. Probably the terms of his probation and his foster father eventually made his way over to him.

"Hey kid," he said softly. "I'm so glad you're safe, I was really worried. I guess you got in a spot of trouble huh big guy?"

"..."

"Well, c'mon. Let's go apologize to the officers and then we'll head home."

Billy grabbed his bag hiking it up on his shoulder and he followed him over to three of the many officers in the building.

"Go on then," Graves urged and Billy thanked them for doing their jobs and taking him in to teach him a valuable life lesson, yada yada... They said their usual spiel. Told him to be a good kid, keep his nose clean, and not to let them see him end up in their office again. Then he followed Graves to his car climbing in he sat on the leather passenger seat.

"Well Billy," he said as he started the car. "I'm not sure what possessed you to run away, but let's not do that again. Anything could have happened to you kid. You're lucky you live in Fawcett instead of a place like Gotham, or I'd be coming to identify a corpse rather than picking up a runaway."

"..."

"I'm sure the cops have lectured you enough on what you did, so I won't bother. But please let me know the next time you plan to run away. If their is a problem, I'm sure we can fix it. Anyway, your foster siblings have missed you, so how about we celebrate your return by having a pizza night?" he said smiling.

"Okay," Billy answered.

"Alright, it's settled," he said happily. "I'm just going to stop at the convenience store first, it's on the way."

"Great," Billy turned to look out the window. Those types of stores were the places he would get his liquor from. He hadn't changed it seemed. And a little later they pulled into the parking lot and Graves got out letting Billy know he would just be a minute. Billy waited until he was in the store before he grabbed his bag and walked out the passenger side door. He could see into the window of the store where Mr. Graves placed three bottles on the desk for check out.

No... he wasn't sticking around for this. The last time Mr. Graves had had one of his alcoholic fits, he had been driven to the point of physically hitting him a number of times. That was before he had gained the ability to become Captain Marvel. He couldn't do anything then against him then. He didn't have a choice. But he had a choice now, and he choose to leave.

Billy did feel bad for the other kids, but it wasn't like Captain Marvel could just scoop them up from their own home and take them somewhere better. That technically, would be kidnapping. Even if morally it would be the right thing to do. He started heading towards the wooded area behind the store. As soon as he was far enough away he would say his little phrase and then fly off. Far from here.

He stopped though. Those kids... Sara and Jordin. They couldn't just say a magic word and fly away. No, they had to stay in the house with that man when he was sober as well as drunk. They couldn't just magically become stronger than him, so he couldn't hurt them. But Billy could, and it felt wrong to run off knowing full well that Mr. Graves would be bringing those bottles home that night, drinking them, and possibly hurting those two kids. They were younger than him, and here he was about to abandon them, when he very clearly had a chance to stop it...

It felt wrong to leave them.

He turned back and climbed into the passenger seat closing the door. Captain Marvel could take those kids away if their was evidence of his being abusive. He would show the social service people and then Jordin and Sara could... let's be honest... go to another abusive home. No... he told himself he would just have to hope they ended up somewhere better next time. He had had a few nice foster homes in the past even if they were few and far between. Billy had to focus on the problem now and that problem was Mr. Graves.

How would he do it though? He needed evidence. Flying the kids away was just kidnapping unless he could prove he took them away for their own safety. A minute or two later Mr. Graves climbed back into the car putting bottles wrapped in brown paper bags on the floorboard at his feet. He supposed he could try to get rid of the alcohol, but that wouldn't give him the evidence he needed.

The next place they stopped was the pizza place grabbing a large peperoni and a large cheese. Mr. Graves kept trying to make small talk, but Billy found it hard to talk to him as he did most adults. After a while, Mr. Graves grabbed one of the alcohol bottles, he twisted off the cap. "I'm just a little thirsty," he commented.

"Sure..." Billy answered. They still had awhile before they got home and by the time they reached their familiar neighborhood a little over half that bottle was empty.

Billy tried to distract himself from the fact the Mr. Graves was very clearly not driving completely straight. So he glanced around the neighborhood. It looked as it always had with only a few differences from how he remembered it. The most notable difference was was a tree in their neighbor's back yard was missing it's top half and appeared to be scorched. He asked Mr. Graves about it, and he reminded Billy of the really bad storm they had had the day before he ran away. The tree had apparently gotten so damaged that it became unstable and the neighbors were forced to cut the tree down. That was a bummer, they had had a really cool tire swing, and the neighbor would let him, Sara and Jordin swing on it now and then.

He noticed how Mr. Graves' words were getting tripped up a sure sign he had drank a lot. It would only be a matter of time. As soon as something pissed him off he would start cussing and throwing things. Billy started thinking of something he could say to push him over that edge. He needed proof, and this was the best way to get it. Mr. Graves didn't get violent every time he drank, but he needed to make sure he did this time. Billy didn't feel this was completely right either. He was basically setting Mr. Graves up. It had a name, he had seen it on cop shows. What was it called? Entrapment? Yeah, that's what he was planning to do and that wasn't a good thing he supposed. But if it helped two kids get out of a bad home... It was okay then, wasn't it?

Mr. Graves pulled into the driveway at a slightly awkward angle and they went inside, Mrs. Graves was leaning against the railing of the stairs typing away on her phone. She was dressed up really pretty, and she barely paid either of them a glance when they came in.

"About time Nathan," she snapped and grabbed her purse off a hook before she headed out the door.

Nathan handed him the pizza's and followed her out to talk to her, so Billy called up the stairs for the kids to come down before he walked the pizza into the kitchen. They recognized his voice immediately and came hurtling down the steps.

"BILLY!"

"YOU'RE HOME!"

They both rushed up hugging him from behind as he put the pizza's down on the kitchen table. He turned when they came in and the smile that was on his face fell. Jordin had a half healed black eye, and on Sara's lip was a scab that appeared to be a fairly new.

"What happened Billy?" she asked. "Where have you been?"

"I went exploring," he stated simply. "What happened to your lip?"

"Daddy got mad at me," she said calmly and then noticing the food her face lit up. "Yea! Pizza!"

Their were a lot of kids who would call their foster parents Mom and Dad, but Billy never found himself able to use the terms so loosely. He had only ever had one Mom and one Dad, and they were the best parents in the whole world. No one else deserved that title. Thus he always called his foster parents by their names.

Billy got plates and drinks for the kids and made sure they both had a slice before he walked over to the window to investigate why Mr. Graves hadn't come back yet. He looked out the window and saw him and his wife arguing by the car. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but he knew they were yelling at one another.

"Is Dad mad again?" Jordin asked.

"Don't worry, nothings going to happen," Billy assured him. His wife got in the car and sped off. Mr. Graves threw something at her vehicle as she left and Billy watched him head back inside.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because I'm a hero," he answered taking a seat at the table with them. "And I'm not going to let him hurt either of you. Never again."

He heard the door slam and Mr. Graves yell, "Fucking cunt!"

Billy hadn't set out a plate for himself, nor had he grabbed a drink. He didn't have any intention of eating right now. He was too busy listening, for any sign that Mr. Graves was going to come in there. Billy saw Jordin lean forward and lower his head apparently trying to make himself look as small as possible. Sara had started taking extra drinks of her water. He supposed she was trying to busy herself with anything that could distract her from his yelling.

"You get the fuck back here! I mean it! Is he really that fucking special? Get back here! You heard me! Don't you hang up on—" The next second they heard the phone slam against the opposite wall in the other room and Sara and Jordin jumped at the noise. Billy didn't jump he just kept his ears open.

"You're okay," Billy assured them adding a smile.

"Aren't you hungry?" Jordin asked noticing he hadn't grabbed a slice.

"I'm good, eat up," he went back to listening. He was hoping Mr. Graves would just go upstairs and pass out. If he was going to trick him into getting violent, he would prefer to do so after the other two went to sleep. Still he would be prepared if he came in here now. After all he knew a magic word that would make him stop, he just had to get proof first. A black eye, a bloodied lip. Something that had occurred now rather than however long ago Jordin and Sara's half-healed injuries were. He would take a picture of himself with the camera he had upstairs from before he ran away, then he would transform into Shazam outside of the sight of everyone. With the camera and the kids, he would go to a police station as Captain Marvel. If they asked about Billy, he would tell them he ran away again. Then... then he would just become Captain Marvel full time. No more Billy Batson.

He wasn't looking forward to getting beat up, but it was okay if it meant Sara and Jordin never had to be hit again.

Mr. Graves' footsteps grew louder and Billy's worry came true. The next moment he had walked in the room and gotten himself a plate, loudly. He slammed the cupboard after he opened it before he walked over grabbing a slice he plopped himself down in a seat at the end of the table.

"Fucking cunt thinks she can just run off. She's cheating on me I know it," he only half mumbled under his breath but then he yelled, "Sara!"

She jumped looking his direction a slight look of panic in her eyes. "Yeah."

"Do you know what a cunt is?"

She looked down. Billy knew they had heard that word several times, it was one of Mr. Grave's favorites to throw around when he was upset, but he wasn't sure she had ever looked up the definition. Still not really appropriate language to use around a nine year old.

"No," she answered.

"A cunt is a woman who doesn't know how to be fucking loyal to a man. You do yourself a favor little girl. If you can't be faithful to a man, then don't you ever fucking get married! Do you understand?!"

"Yeah," she mumbled.

"What? Speak up!"

"Yes!" she answered louder not tearing her eyes away from her plate.

His eyes glided across the table to where Billy sat without a plate or a slice of pizza.

"Why the hell aren't you eating?" he snapped.

"I'm not hungry," Billy lied looking at him seriously. Anticipation of the moment when Mr. Graves' fit crossed the line from verbal abuse to physical made him feel, slightly scared, if he was being honest. Ever since he had gotten Shazam's gift, he thought he would never have to be scared again and here he was fearfully anticipating this crossover as though he were still just a regular kid without superpowers, like how he was last time he was here. Billy couldn't help but feel a little ashamed by that. Shazam had given him this power, because he said he was worthy. He was special. Yet deep down he was the same scared kid he had always been and he hated it.

At least he was good at pushing past fears, and being afraid wasn't going to stop him from doing what he needed to do.

"Really? First you run away, cost me money and the police's time, only to get back here and go on a hunger strike?" he spat. "Are you trying to get me in trouble?"

"No," he answered.

"Then eat some damn food."

He shoved his own plate roughly across the table knocking Jordin's water over as he stormed off to another room. Billy cleaned up the mess and sat with the kids until they were done eating. Then he told them to go upstairs, brush their teeth and go to bed.

"It's not bedtime," Jordin complained.

"It is today," Billy explained thinking about how it was only a few months from December, he added. "Santa told me you two need to go to bed early today. You don't want to upset Santa right?"

"Did he really?" Sara asked looking impressed that Billy knew Santa.

"He sure did, so get upstairs," he followed them to make sure Mr. Graves didn't stumble up when he wasn't looking. He made sure they brushed their teeth and watched them climb into bed.

"What's the best present you ever got from Santa?" Sara asked as Billy pulled the covers over her.

"Hhhmmm... " he paused thinking. "A wake up call."

"Huh? What's that?"

"Don't worry about it, just go to sleep and stay here until morning no matter what you hear okay," Billy made her promise with a pinky promise and then he took Jordin to the room that the two of them shared and tucked him in as well. Making him promise the same thing.

"Aren't you going to bed too?" Jordin asked. His bed was on the other side of the room.

"I got something I have to do," Billy explained. "I'll be up in a bit."

He walked out into the hall and closed the door. Okay, now all he had to do was get Mr. Graves to become violent. He had an idea on how he was going to do that, but he still didn't feel good about it. Pushing the emotion away he found Mr. Graves attempting to put the phone he threw earlier back together.

"You need some help Mr. Graves?" Billy asked leaning in the doorway.

The man was mumbling to himself and sloppily trying to put the phone back in order. He kept dropping pieces and he got frustrated throwing the biggest chunk of the phone against the wall again, the drywall was scratched in multiple places.

"Man, can't even put a phone back together, no wonder your wife is sleeping with someone else," his words immediately made Billy feel sick. This wasn't okay... Something in the man's expression seemed to flash with anger and Graves looked up at him glaring.

"The fuck did you say boy?"

"I mean, she probably wants a real man, not someone who's hunched over a broken phone at seven in the afternoon," he wasn't really good at insults. He had never been a bully before not even to other bullies who might deserve it. But he knew he was being one now.

"Who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that!?" he snapped.

"Just stating what I see," he walked closer but froze when he noticed. Mr. Graves was crying. He was crying... A grown man...

"Are you okay?" Billy's tone changed immediately and he suddenly felt a sense of guilt building up in his gut. He was crying... He was crying... The realization of this was such a difficult concept. Bad people didn't cry.

"I give her everything," he coughed wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve. "I give her everything... Why... Why am I not good enough for her."

"Mr. Graves," Billy felt sick at what he had been planning. Looking down at this grown man bawling like a small child. He didn't know what he wanted to do now. He could ruin this man's life even more by turning him into the police for his abusive actions. Abusive actions only caused because he was trying to find solace from his pain in the easiest way adults had to get relief. Alcohol was in Billy's mind just forgetfulness in a bottle. Something that let them not focus on sadness and pain if only for a few minutes. Did he have the right to punish someone who was just trying to escape their own pain? "Why don't you get some sleep. I'll clean this up."

"She's my whole world," he stammered again. "She's everything..."

"I know," Billy answered attempting to help him up. "She'll be home before you know it. You two can talk then."

Billy was supposed to be a hero. Was it his decision to decide who was worthy of being saved and who wasn't? Just because someone hurt others, did that automatically mean they didn't deserve to be helped if they found themselves in need? Did one act of evil just define a bad person? Maybe... this whole hero thing wasn't so cut and dry.

Mr. Graves suddenly shoved Billy away, "What the hell do you know! You don't know what she means to me!"

"Mr. Graves, it'll be okay," he said not really knowing what else to tell him. He couldn't know if it would be okay or not. The man reached up grabbing Billy's arm, he pulled him to the floor beside him wrapping an arm around his shoulder to keep him there, and he pulled out his cell phone.

He opened his gallery and started flipping through pictures of his wife. Standing there with her hair done up, pearls and diamonds around her wrist and neck. Clearly she was ready for a fancy party. He flipped to the next, she was wearing a sun dress sitting with him at a picnic table laughing with a few others. Pic by pic he showed Billy scenes of their life together.

"Lo... Look at her," he stuttered sniffling.

Billy attempted to pull his arm from around his shoulder so he could get up, maybe get Mr. Graves upstairs so he could sleep off his drunken state. But he didn't like that and caught hold of Billy's wrist hold him firmly, he continued talking about her rocking and mumbling through some of his words so badly it was incoherent. But Billy got the gist of what he was saying. He spoke about how much of an angle she was. How she was his whole world. Billy tried to pry the man's fingers away with his free hand, but he was too strong for him.

His breath smelled of alcohol and his grip was really starting to hurt.

"Mr. Graves, just go to sleep. She'll be back tomorrow," he tried to assure him, knowing full well the word of a kid wouldn't mean much to an adult. Billy didn't bother trying to pry his wrist free anymore. He figured it was probably best to just let him finish ranting. He would pass out eventually.

"She's so good," he wept. "She's got a good heart on her. Always thought about others."

He was talking about her almost as if she had died. He wondered if his drunken brain might actually think she was. He kept flipping through the pictures, and suddenly they changed. It was still of his wife, but the next photo showed her with half her dress pulled down revealing her breast. Billy turned away immediately, and Mr. Graves seemed instantly offended by that. He twisted Billy's arm before he brought the phone closer. "Look at her damn it! She's gorgeous! You ever seen a woman so beautiful."

The next pic had her completely naked and blowing a kiss to the camera, he still looked away. He didn't want to see that... obviously.

He let go of Billy's arm grabbing the back of his hair turning his head to look at the camera, "You don't think she looks good? You think she's ugly?"

"She's beautiful Mr. Graves," he remarked frowning. He kept his eyes averted even if his head couldn't be. Billy knew he was a pretty naïve kid, but even he understood that these were private pictures meant to be for her husband's eyes only.

"Damn right she's beautiful," he said and he sat back shoving Billy away so hard he had to catch himself so she didn't hit the nearby coffee table. "She's the most beautiful girl in the whole world."

Billy felt bad for him. He honestly did, he didn't know what he wanted to do anymore. The plan he originally had didn't feel right anymore. Mr. Graves had never cried like this in the past when he would drink and he didn't want to turn him in anymore. He was supposed to be a hero... Heroes help people. How could he help him... Captain Marvel's powers were... for fighting. Subduing enemies. He couldn't repair marriages or fix broken hearts. Billy didn't know what he should do all he knew was he didn't want to entice him into harming him just to have him arrested. Maybe he could find another way to help.

"You know what... Fuck her!" he snapped suddenly and Billy looked over at him as he stumbled to his feet and almost immediately tripped over one of the phone pieces. Acting as though he hadn't just nearly faceplanted he kept blustering, "She don't need me, then I don't fucking need her."

Billy got to his feet and headed over to him. "Here, lean on me... I'll get you to to your bedroom."

He looked up with his bloodshot eyes frowning, "You know what, fuck you too!"

Billy was a little surprised by that.

"You always walked around here like a fucking martyr, you're not special you brat!"

"I know I'm not," Billy answered. He didn't know what a martyr was. But he assumed he was referencing how he always tried to do what was right, Mr. Graves had yelled at him for that before. Billy reached out to help steady him.

"Just go away," he snapped shoving his arm back. "Get the fuck out of here. Cost me more money why don't you. Just like her!"

"I'm not leaving Mr. Graves. Let me help you," Billy said firmly grabbing his arm he attempted to lead him to his room. He had managed to walk him a few steps forward before he got upset and hauled off and punched him. Billy fell back on the floor instantly tasting blood in his mouth from where his tooth had apparently cut his inner lip.

"You think you're fucking better than me, you damn brat! Lose someone you love and see how high and mighty you still stand," he barked loudly.

"Mr. Gr—"

"No shut up!" he snapped. Mr. Graves balanced himself against the wall. "I don't want to hear anything more from anyone!"

"Billy," the soft voice made Billy look over to the door where Sara peeked around the corner.

"Sara go back up stairs," he warned.

"I said shut up!" Mr. Graves reached up grabbing a small antique shelf clock and he threw it straight at Sara's face. She gasped, her little arms going up to shield her face.

He hadn't intended to use his powers in front of them. Pointless or not, he had a secret identity to keep. But he also wasn't going to let Sara get hurt. So... screw secret identities.

"SHAZAM!"

The clock cracked upside her head. She fell back on the ground crying as she cradled it.

Billy stood there... Still Billy. He was still Billy. He hadn't changed...

"SHAZAM!" he yelled again. Nothing. Nothing at all.

"I said shut up!" Mr. Graves walked over, looming over him, eyes blood shot and scary looking. He looked so angry.

* * *

He was nervous as he sat in the private dining room he had reserved for the evening. It was a nice space with a great view in a high rise restaurant overlooking the city. Bruce Wayne rarely got nervous, and Batman certainly didn't. But he was. He knew Talia, he knew Ra's Al Ghul. His son had been raised by these people. What sort of child would he be?

All too soon, they arrived and immediately upon entering the room Talia rushed over to him.

"Beloved," she said throwing her arms around his shoulders she kissed him before he realized what exactly had happened. Not wanting to be rude he pulled her away as politely as he could. She stepped aside and Damian was behind her. Dressed in a suit, his hair cut the same as Bruce's. He seemed short for his age, but then again, Bruce had been as well when he was that old.

"Damian," he held his hand out, and Damian shook it.

"It's nice to meet you Father," he said politely.

"Well, let's talk," he said indicating the table he let them sit on one side and he sat across from them. The waiter who had been standing by the door came forward, he took their order and then hurried off to place it.

Talia almost immediately launched into discussing Damian, but the whole conversation was worded strangely. She spoke of his age, which languages he was fluent in, notable skills. Then the conversation drifted to weapons skills, long and short range accuracy, and number of kills. Bruce felt sick when the number was presented to him, but it also made him realize what she was doing. She was promoting him. Assassins did this to convince criminals to use their hired hands. It was almost as if she felt she had to persuade him into deeming Damian worthy of being his son. That wasn't how this worked though.

Damian had remained quiet the whole time she spoke and looked out the window at the view of the city instead. He only turned to look at him when Talia finished her spiel, "I took every precaution in preparing this weapon for you Beloved. Feel free to use him as you see fit."

"Talia..." he frowned but had to hold off on his retort because the food had arrived. Their dishes were set out before them and Talia grabbed her chopsticks to start eating.

"You seem displeased. Is he not up to your standards, Beloved?"

"I have no standards that he has to meet," Bruce explained and for the first time the boy's expression changed and the slightest look of confusion crossed his face.

"If that is the case then why do you look upset Beloved?" she asked.

"He's a child Talia," Bruce frowned. "He shouldn't be a weapon."

"Of course, that's why your adopted sons run around the city with you fighting criminals," she blew softly on her food before taking her next bite.

"They had a choice in that," Bruce pointed out. "The way you're making it sound, Damian never did."

He looked over at him and noticed he hadn't touched his food yet.

"Are you not hungry?" Bruce asked him.

Talia looked over grabbing his chopsticks she pushed them a little closer to him adding, "Go on and eat darling."

Damian did, removing the chopsticks from their sheath he started to eat. And Bruce sighed, she had the boy completely trained, he wouldn't even eat until given verbal permission to do so. It was worse than he had imagined.

"Father and I have already discussed an arrangement that we think you'll find satisfactory as well. A custody arrangement where we alternate weeks suits our needs. Do you find this adequate?" she asked.

"Yeah, fine..." he said. He turned to Damian.

"What sort of things do you like to do?" he asked.

"Damian is—"

He held a hand up to stop her. "I'm asking Damian."

"Answer your Father's question's Damian," she said before turning her attention to her meal.

"I draw," he answered. Bruce hadn't been expecting such a human answer. He very nearly thought the boy was going to launch into killing techniques or battle tactics.

"Yeah?" Bruce smiled at that. "What do you draw?"

"Anything, whatever I think of," he explained. "But I like drawing animals especially."

"Damian your Father isn't interested in those sorts of things," she explained. "Art can't benefit him. Tell him about the weapons you've mastered."

"Actually, I'd like to hear about which animals Damian likes to draw," Bruce said firmly.

"Why?" Talia asked looking confused. "His art skills would hold no value to you."

"It's not about having value for me, it's about what he enjoys," Bruce sighed. He didn't know how to explain that concept to her. All actions were meant to have results, and if an action didn't yield a result it was a wasted action in her eyes.

"I feel like you've changed Beloved," she said softly frowning.

"And sadly, it's clear you haven't."

* * *

It took awhile to resolve the situation, and he did his best to keep Mr. Grave's attention on him rather than focusing on Sara. Eventually after a few more injuries he was able to get Mr. Graves to shuffle off to his room. He helped Sara take care of her head injury and got her back in bed before focusing on his own injuries. But he wasn't exactly worried about them. They hurt, and he was bleeding, but... It didn't matter compared to the big picture.

Why hadn't his powers worked? He didn't change when he called the wizard's name. He knew he hadn't had these powers very long, but... that had never failed him before. What changed?

What changed?

What was different?

Was it because he had a criminal record now. He was technically a criminal now. Or was it because he had planned to entrap Mr. Graves and use the injuries he received from his drinking to have officers throw him in jail, instead of helping a depressed man who had turned to alcohol in an effort to relieve his sadness? In that aspect, was he any better than the guy who had tricked him into his criminal record in the first place?

Shazam had said he was worthy, he was special. Maybe... maybe he wasn't worthy of the powers anymore. Maybe Shazam took them back.

That was alright, he supposed. Someone more deserving could have them now. Someone who could actually help people when they had collapsed in a sad drunken fit on the floor. Someone who knew how to help when an adult was crying.

He wasn't worthy anymore.

This thought wouldn't have bothered him so much if he hadn't already come to the realization that the only reason he had for being here was to be Captain Marvel and help others. Their was no reason for Billy to be here, being Billy wouldn't change the world or help anyone. Why hadn't he made the decision to be Captain Marvel permanently before he had gotten tricked and ended up with a record? Being Captain Marvel gave him a purpose, a reason for being here that was bigger than himself. It gave him a life that wasn't filled with foster families and memories of his dead parents. Memories that were getting more and more fuzzy with each passing year.

* * *

The press had caught wind of their meet up, and to get out of there before too big a crowd had gathered they choose to cut it short. But Bruce agreed to have Damian's week begin that day and they had Alfred get the luggage from Talia's limo and put it into his. Then they went to the entrance. The crowd had a number of religious nuts out there with a few people calling Damian's name.

"Maybe we should go out the back," Bruce suggested.

"Nonsense," Talia said and turning to Damian she said. "Your public awaits."

Damian reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of black gloves that matched his coat.

"Talia it's probably not a good idea," he snapped.

"Your son is a God Beloved, watch him work," she said holding the door open and Damian walked through it. Frowning he followed her out. Damian walked over to the crowd, the League followers immediately fell to their knees and Damian took a moment to speak to them. Many of them called him young Lord, or Messiah and asked Damian to say a prayer on their behalf. Damian made appoint to take their hands in his and speak to them. Part of the crowd had gathered simply because this was Bruce fucking Wayne and Talia Al Ghul, Gotham socialites and two of the richest people on the planet. These people seemed rather confused as to why so many people were bowing to Damian.

Eventually Bruce and Damian finally got into the limo and Alfred began to drive them home.

"You don't... believe that your actually a God do you?"

"Of course I am," he answered.

Bruce sighed, "Damian, your religion... It's not real. Your Mother and your Grandfather made it up to cover up their Assassination business. Your religion is fake."

"It is," Damian agreed somewhat boldly and Bruce looked down at him a little confused. "But all religion's are."

"..." Bruce couldn't help but notice how he sat like an adult and was speaking with the tone of someone in a business meeting.

"Answer me this Father, how is my religion any different from others? The whole point of any religion is to instill values and beliefs in your people. The sort of values that shape the world into your vision of perfection based on the ideals you've deemed the most important. In the past, they they assigned the title of God to imaginary men in the sky and blamed all of life's misfortune and blessings upon them. The biggest difference between other religions verses our own is rather than assigning the God title to figments of imagination, we have assigned that identity to living people they can actually see and hear with their own eyes. And these men perform miracles people can actually witness," Damian explained.

He had an air of confidence around him that he didn't have when his Mother was with him. It was like an entirely different child was seated beside him, and the quiet submissive boy he had had dinner with was gone.

"Think about it, no one alive today knows for sure if Jesus turned water to wine," Damian continued. "But they sure as hell know that Ra's al Ghul has brought people back to life, that he has healed the ill and made the blind see. Whether or not we're actually Gods makes no difference, what matters is that they believe we are. That belief holds more value than the truth in the end, and if what someone believes is more important than reality, then... we are in fact Gods among men."

Bruce didn't know what to say to that.

Damian looked out the window at the city lights going by, and without turning back to Bruce he added, "I am a God, in the same way that you're Batman. At the end of the day, we're just people in masks. But that doesn't make the way people fear us any less real."


	5. Not All Heros Wear Capes

“This is your home, it’s kind of small isn’t it?” Damian said looking up at Wayne manor upon their arrival. It wasn’t as though he expected the Wayne manor to be as big as his Grandfather’s castle, but he had at least expected it to be bigger than his Mother’s manor in Gotham, and it wasn’t. His Mother always talked about what a big important man Bruce Wayne was, so why was his house so small?

“Small?” Bruce looked up at the manor folding his arms in thought. “We have over fifty rooms.”

“Mother’s home has ninety-six, plus a guest manor,” he pointed out before Alfred came around the vehicle.

“Well I don’t know what you want me to do about that,” Bruce said. “We have what we have.”

“Follow me Master Damian,” Alfred said walking him up to the front doors which Alfred held open so he could head inside. Both Alfred and he exchanged somewhat exasperated glances. One that seemed to say he was exactly the type of boy they feared he would be.

“Hey he’s here!” Dick called up the stairs to the other two before walking over to Damian he held his hand out. Damian shook it politely.

“I’m Dick Grayson,” he said. “It’s nice to officially meet you Damian.”

Tim and Jason came down at that point. Both of them were frowning. They weren’t as eager to meet the kid as Grayson was.

“You’re the gypsy boy Mother told me about correct, the first adopted son of Father’s,” Damian pointed out.

Dick flinched slightly at the insult, as gypsy was a slur name. Bruce looked like he was about to open his mouth to say something, but Dick quickly let the moment pass by. Their were plenty of people who didn’t realize how insulting that term was, and he wanted to give a good impression and not scold the kid immediately upon their first meeting. “Yup, that’s me. These two are—”

“The street urchin and tech nerd. Of course, Mother told me of you two as well. The second and third of Father’s adopted sons,” he looked at each of them in turn before turning his attention to the manor. “The furnishing are awfully old. Have you never thought of upgrading Father?”

His Mother’s manor had the latest technologies and furniture, but this manor looked like its décor hadn’t been touched in 60+ years.

“My parents liked the old style design, and I haven’t changed much about the manor since they passed,” he pointed out.

“I see,” Damian walked over to a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne that he had hanging on the wall by the entrance. “Does retaining the aesthetics make you feel like they’re still alive?”

Jason let out a low whistle at those words and Bruce’s lips tightened at his words. Damian had been here four minutes and so far he had managed to insult nearly everyone in the room and had brought up Bruce’s dead parents.

“How about you let Alfred take you on a tour of the manor,” Bruce said changing the subject.

“You’ve seen one old decrepit manor, you’ve seen them all. What I really want to see is the Batcave.”

“No,” Tim snapped stepping forward.

“Be nice,” Grayson warned.

“I’m serious, he’s Ra’s Al Ghul’s grandson. For all we know he’s wearing contact lenses so he can record all of Bruce’s secrets,” Tim whispered so only him and the others could hear.

“I mean,” Jason piped up frowning. “He already knows Bruce is Batman... what else does he need to know?”

“Grandfather asked no such thing of me,” Damian explained turning to Bruce and Tim and the others froze as they figured he hadn’t been able to hear them with how quietly they had been speaking. “But the boy there is correct in assuming that I have an agenda.”

“Boy,” Jason snickered.

“I’m older than you kid!” Tim snapped.

“But unlike me, you’re still a child,” Damian pointed out.

“Wha… Seriously, in what world do you live in, where you’re an adult!” Tim spat furiously.

“Those in the league become adults at thirteen, which I am now,” he explained simply as though this settled the matter and he turned back to Bruce. “Father I still wish to see the Batcave.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce smiled. “If you can find it, you can see it.”

“A test, alright… I excel at exams,” Damian said grinning and he turned heading up stairs he disappeared around the corner.

“Wow…” Jason said after Damian disappeared from view. “Is it too late to send him back?”

“Bruce…” Tim went up to him looking rather annoyed. “Seriously, how long is he staying here?”

“At the moment, his mother and I are switching off custody every other week,” Bruce explained. “While he’s here, this is his home. I’ll speak to him about his behavior, so please try to be nice.”

“He’s going to be here a whole week…” Tim frowned.

“Let’s… all just… try to get along,” Grayson said encouragingly.

“I’m sorry, did you not hear what he called you?” Tim asked.

“Of course I did, just let that one be,” Dick said assuringly.

“I prepared the fourth room on the third floor for him to sleep,” Alfred said. “I’ll drop his things off there.”

“Thank you Alfred,” Bruce was starting to get that sinking feeling he was dreading. The kid was here. Now what? He was the grandson of one of his enemies. He’s been trained by assassins. You don’t exactly ask a kid like that if he wants t go play video games or throw a ball around…

Bruce was used to keeping his distance. Since the incident with Jason a few years back, he didn’t spend time with the others like he usually would, and that was saying something because he wasn’t exactly surrogate father of the year prior to that either.

“How about we take him out somewhere?” Dick suggested almost as if he could read the dilemma on Bruce’s face. “Maybe he would like to go to the Fall Fair. I heard it opened in Gotham last week?”

“Great, you three go do that,” Bruce said.

“Hello, what about you?” Tim snapped looking annoyed in his pre-annoyed way when he knew Bruce was about to do something he was going to hate.

“I’ve got a lot to—”

“Hell no Bruce!” Jason snapped. “Your not sticking us with the demon shrimp while you get to ignore him like you did most of us growing up!”

“I didn’t ignore you,” Bruce countered, but paused when he couldn’t think of a compelling counter argument.

“The kid’s an assassin, right? I say we take him out and hunt some bad guys. See how good he really is.”

“We don’t need to be encouraging that behavior. He’s not to go on patrol. Period.”

Jason frowned. “I think he would find it fun.”

“Yeah, just what I need to see that kid having fun murdering people,” Bruce sighed. “Besides, you know the code. Batman can’t be associated with someone like _that_ on the team...”

Jason’s frowned deepened, certain that part of that statement was meant for him as well. “Hey, I haven’t killed anyone in years! For you I might add!”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Bruce retorted, and Jason rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, sure you weren’t…”

“Okay,” Dick stepped between them. “Come on now, the topic was Damian, let’s stick to that.”

“It’s interesting, I’ll give you that. Could do without the bats though,” Damian’s voice had come over the PA system in the house.

“No way! He found it!” Tim frowned and they all hurried off to the batcave where they found Damian seated at the computer, though he wasn’t facing it. He had turned the chair to face outward overlooking the batmobile and the various other things in the cave.

“I find your lair acceptable Father,” Damian said getting up from the seat he walked over to the batmobile to inspect it.

“How did you find it so fast?” Jason asked genuinely curious.

“Mother said Father had a cave. Those tend to be underground,” he stated simply. “Old homes also like to have the access panel to hidden passages as mundane items and trial and error would state that the most common entrance would be in the room Father was most likely to use prior to going on patrol and that would most likely be his office or a study.”

“See Bruce, you should have put your secret entrance in the Bathroom,” Jason teased.

“Good job regardless,” Bruce said heading over to his seat he booted up the computer.

Damian glanced up at it for only a moment but seemed to not be very interested in it.

“Mother told me to be of service to you,” Damian explained. “What will you have me do first?”

“Just, get settled in. Alfred will show you to where you’ll be sleeping.”

“…” Damian frowned. His eyebrows pushing together though he seemed to be trying to hide his confused expression.

“What?” Bruce asked.

“That’s not a task,” he explained. “I’m referring to a mission, or a chore. Something that will prove my worth to you.”

“…” Bruce frowned. “You want chores? Like cleaning?”

“No not like cleaning,” he stammered looking somewhat annoyed now that Bruce wasn’t catching his meaning. “A task. Someone I can hunt down for you. Or perhaps you have a case you’ve been unable to solve. Or… something else you may need.”

He had been about to bring up the sort of thing he would do for his mother. But he decided against it. Damian would have done those sorts of task for his father as well if he asked that of him. Though he decided their was no point offering that information if he didn’t have to, after all he would prefer not to if he could help it. Having to do those things for his Mother was enough of a toll on mind.

“No Damian,” Bruce said bluntly.

“No?”

“I understand your Mother has been training you to be an assassin. But I have no need for one.”

“…” he frowned. “How come?”

“Because I don’t believe in killing.”

“Why?”

“It’s not my place to make that decision,” he explained before pulling up the information on his latest case.

“Your ideology is flawed,” Damian stated bluntly. “Someone has to make that decision. You know what’s right and wrong, so why not you?”

“Damian, right and wrong isn’t always black and white. There are grey areas… Hell, sometimes there are multi-colored areas. We have a justice system in place because we learned a long time ago that it’s never a good thing for a single person to have absolute power and decision-making authority.”

Dick, Tim and Jason were standing off to the side. It was kind of entertaining watching Bruce have to deal with someone who seemed just as bull headed as himself.

“But what if that person is divine, with a just goal. Like Grandfather, or Mother.”

Bruce physically turned from the computer to face him. This was going to be harsh, but it needed to be said. “Damian, from my perspective, they’re not just or divine.”

“Why?” Damian snapped rather defensively. His stance stiffened like he was reading for a fight. He seemed to have taken Bruce’s words as an insult. “They’ve done nothing but help people.”

“They kill Damian,” Bruce explained, he was starting to get angry now.

“Some people deserve to die,” Damian answered. Bruce was getting upset too. Everyone who was looking on grew tense, but the sort of tense that came from watching a thrilling show. If they had had popcorn they would probably have pulled up chairs.

“No one deserves to die! An enemy to you is someone else’s loved one. Your dearest friend could be another person’s worst fear. Death is not a tool we can just pick and choose to use when the situation seems fit and just. That’s something your Mother and Grandfather never seemed to understand, they’re evil Damian.”

“Grandfather and Mother are great people. Divine and just in their actions. I won’t have you defiling their name just because you don’t agree with their cause. Maybe if your parents had been a little more like them they would still be alive today.”

Bruce got to his feet pushing his chair aside with a loud clatter. He walked up to Damian looking furious. Damian stood his ground. He didn’t flinch, or move, but a sudden sense of dread came over him as Bruce got close.

 _He’s going to hit me_ , Damian couldn’t help but think seeing just how much anger was on his face. It was fine. He would take the hit, though a part of him did regret his last words. After all, mentioning his late grandparents wasn’t a way to get on his father’s good side, and… he needed him to be...

Still he said the words, now he had to stand by them. Because as his Mother always said. He apologized to no one. No one… but her. He would not apologize, so if he paid for those words with a beating, then so be it…

He waited.

A punch, a kick… Something… But his father simply stared down at him, and Damian couldn’t help but noticed just how short he was compared to him. If it had been Ra’s he had upset, the man would certainly have hit him by now, or made him hold strips of metal that had been sitting in a fire. Ra’s punishments could get away with a lot because they always had the pit to repair any punishment that went too far. His father didn’t have a pit, at least not as far as Damian was aware.

He waited.

Bruce still did nothing. Was he waiting for him to do something… Say something? The wait, the wondering about what he was about to do was in many ways, worse than actually being hit. He took a deep breath not daring to look away. The silence was drawing on for so long, and Damian couldn’t handle it.

“What?” he finally snapped glaring up at him.

Bruce let out a low sigh before his arms moved.

Damian closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. But it didn’t come. He opened them again. Bruce had simply folded his arms in obvious disappointment. “You want something to do so badly, then… go sharpen the tools.”

“I’m not a servant,” Damian snapped, but even as he said those words, they didn’t exactly sound like truth to him. “I want an actual task. Something challenging so you can see—”

“You wanted something to do, I gave you something… If you don’t want to do it, then just go upstairs and entertain yourself. I have work to do. We’ll talk later.”

“…” he frowned. It wasn’t as though he had expected him and his father to agree on everything, but perhaps fighting him too much on his father’s misguided ideals wasn’t the way to go about this. Damian needed to be on his good side to reach his goal of returning his father to his mother. He debated the pros and cons in his head quickly before coming to the conclusion that perhaps, it was best he didn’t disobey the first order his father had chosen to give him. “Alright, I will sharpen the weapons. Where are they?”

“I keep the ones that need to be worked on in the far bin a floor down,” Bruce’s voice sounded a bit calmer now but the tone told Damian he was still very much displeased with him.

Damian frowned but offered a slight bow before heading down, something he had been taught to do when departing the presence of an authority figure.

“Aw, that’s it?” Jason said disappointedly. Clearly, he had been hoping to see a fight and Bruce shot a glare in his direction.

* * *

It was cold here. Colder than his cellar.

But he did not mind. His father had told him about his ice fortress, but this was the first time he got to see it. It was pretty, and far bigger than their whole house. His father stayed with him for the majority of the day which was unusual. He found… they didn’t have much to talk about outside of discussing how his father’s day had gone, and when that conversation was over their wasn’t much to discuss. Since his father had stayed with him for the better part of day he couldn’t exactly ask him about his day. So he choose instead to ask him questions about the fortress.

“What’s this?”

“What’s that?”

He was interested in everything. It wasn’t often he would get a change of scenery, so he wanted to know more about the place. His father had robots which looked after the fortress which he thought was cool, but not as cool as the Zoo he had. Which was filled with alien creatures he had never seen in books. That was the best part. It quickly became evident that his father had other things on his mind and while Jon was playing with one of the smaller creatures that his father felt he could be safe around and he was pacing a few steps away. Seeing the great and powerful Superman act this nervous would have been a funny sight for anyone who wasn’t Jon. He was dreading when his Father would finally ask whatever was on his mind because he was pretty sure he knew what his father was going to ask. So he kept his attention on a the small creature in front of him intending to show an overly strong interest in the hopes his father wouldn’t bring it up.

The creature reminded him of a monkey. He had never seen a monkey in real life before but he had seen pictures and this looked very much like one, only it had two sets of arms and a fluffy tail that reminded him of the fur lining on one of the winter coats his mother used to wear. He petted it, and it made noises he associated with their family’s cat before it… ran away.

“Jon… the cellar… Why didn’t you call for me?”

There it was. What was he going to say? Sorry Dad, I was trying to die, so you wouldn’t be burdened with the child who took your wife away anymore… No… He couldn’t say that. But he also couldn’t lie. He didn’t mean he couldn’t lie in the sense of he didn’t have a better back up story. Jon literally couldn’t lie, not without being caught. His father had raised him. He knew his breath, his heartbeat. Having Superman for a father had a lot perks, but… it also had a lot of downsides too. And the fact that his father could just know if he was lying. That was definitely a downside.

“I… I did,” he said softly, that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He knew immediately that his father could tell because he glided over to him making him set the creature down on the ground he had Jon turn to face him and he specifically placed a hand over Jon’s heart. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t keep an eye on Jon’s vitals from a distance. This was his father’s way of saying, _I want the truth from you_ , without saying the words.

Jon always hated it, it felt almost like an invasion of privacy when he forced him to tell the truth like this. But you can’t lie to Superman.

“Jon,” he said sternly. “You were whispering my name. I almost didn’t hear you. I’m terrified to think what might have happened if I hadn’t heard… Why didn’t you call for me?”

“…” Jon’s jaw felt heavy, and his eyes felt like they were burning, but not quite in the same way that they had done the other day. He blinked and felt liquid spill form his eyes. Fearing that maybe it was blood again he reached up wiping it away and then looked down at his hand. No… it was just tears. Not blood at least…

“Son,” Clark said softly, apparently trying to be consoling, but he didn’t know how to be. “Talk to me, please.”

“I didn’t want to be here anymore,” Jon said finally, doing his best to keep his voice steady and not get choked up. He wasn’t sure if he was crying because his father was finding out, or if he was crying because he had failed in his goal of dying. “You wouldn’t have such a hard time if I wasn’t here anymore…”

“Jon that’s not true,” Clark tried to assure him, but Jon had no reason to believe him.

“It is true… you leave important things to help me when I need it, and you would be able to visit Mom more if I wasn’t… Grandma and grandpa would be able to come over if… Life would be better for everyone if I wasn’t here.”

Superman didn’t know how to explain to Jon that this wasn’t true and make him realize it. His wife had always been the one best able to make Jon understand complicated issues that children had a hard time grasping at young ages. So he choose to get more information instead.

“Did you set that fire on purpose?”

“No,” he answered quickly. He definitely didn’t want his father thinking that. “But once the fire started, I… just thought it would be better if I just let it go. I was stupid though. I was too scared, so I kept whispering for you, but I didn’t want you to hear me. I’m Superman’s son, but I inherited none of your bravery, I couldn’t even die without pleading that you come help me. I’m a coward…”

Clark pulled Jon into a hug. “Hey… you’re not a coward. You’re a child. Jon… you… you don’t… Your being here is…”

Clark frowned he was so bad at being a parent. All the powers any hero could hope for and he didn’t have a single one that made him able to communicate with his son.

“You mean the world to me son, I want you here. With me, and your Mother. She’ll get better one day you’ll see…” he was talking rather fast. “I want you to be here and be safe.”

“Just because you want something, doesn’t mean that’s what’s best,” Jon said softly and he turned away wiping his face on his sleeve before he sat back down in front of the creature. It walked over crawling up onto his lap and made noises for attention.

Superman could have made him stay facing him. Could have had them talk this out for hours, but none of that would matter if he didn’t know what to say to him.

Jon was everything to him. With Lois gone… nothing mattered more than him. Taking care of Jon gave him the strength to keep going, to keep being Superman, to keep fighting for good and for justice in the world. If he had to lose Jon as well as Lois. He wouldn’t be able to continue. Their would be no point to being Superman, to continue saving people when he could keep safe the two most important people in the world to him. Jon was keeping him alive, giving him reason and purpose, and if he was being honest. He was scared. Terrified, actually, at the idea of losing him.

He walked over and placed a hand on Jon’s head, “Please don’t ever do something like that again. Death is not an option for you. Promise me.”

“…”

“Promise me.”

“… I promise...”

“Good,” he frowned, but seemed to be trying to force a smile through it.

“Am I staying here now?” Jon asked looking back at him, he had mostly dried his tears now, but his face was still a bit glossy looking from the tears that had been there.

“Actually, I was thinking I would have you stay with a friend of mine,” Clark said sitting across from him and one of the creatures crawled over to him as well wanting to play.

“Your friend?”

“Batman,” he answered. “You remember seeing him on TV don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jon frowned nervously at the thought. Batman scared him. He was supposed to be a good guy, but he dressed like a bad one, a scary one. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to be around people.”

“Well, I think it might be time to try changing that, Batman thinks he can help us, you mainly, and I want to let him try,” Clark explained. “He… he wants to run some tests… how do you feel about that?”

“Like a written test?” he answered thinking of his homeschooling exams.

“No… I imagine, he is referring to blood tests. X-rays probably. A few other things…”

“…” Jon didn’t know how he felt about that. He had never really been to a doctor, but he had seen a few doctor shows on television when flipping channels. Some of those doctor shows looked really scary. “Will it hurt?”

Superman didn’t answer at first. He wasn’t 100% sure about what sort of tests he would run, and didn’t know if they would hurt or not. But seeing the look of worry increase with each second it took him to respond he spoke up quickly. “I’ll be there for all of it. When I’m not you can stay in your room until I’m there, and he promised he’s only going to perform tests when I’m present so, if anything is too painful for you, I will make him stop.”

Jon’s worries weren’t eased with that comment, and Superman tried to consider another way to word that. “I mean… I won’t let him do anything that’s going to hurt you.”

Jon supposed, if his father thought it was best… then perhaps it was for the best. “He’s going to help me be normal?”

“As normal as the son of Superman can be,” Clark explained with a smile.

“Okay,” he answered, though he still wasn’t sure he completely wanted to go through with it, but if Bruce could get his powers under control, then… maybe the worry about his hurting people would be over, and… and he could be a normal kid.

* * *

Billy was really sore come morning. The small beating he had had to endure made him want to lay in bed all day, but… now that he was back with a foster family again, he would have to actually go to school. Frowning he sat up putting a hand on his ribs, which was what hurt the most. Mr. Graves had kicked him really hard there.

He would have endured 100 kicks just like that to have had his powers back again. He wished the wizard would have at least told him why he wasn’t worthy anymore, though he was pretty sure it was because he had gotten sent to the police office. Either that, or it was because of what he had planned to do last night when he was going to get evidence against Mr. Graves to have him locked away. That was before he had realized why he was so upset though. But still, thoughts about a bad action was just as bad as doing it wasn’t it?

“Shazam,” he whispered. Just to see.

Nothing… Nothing happened…

He didn’t have time to worry about that now. He carefully changed for the day and walked out of the room almost running into Sara who was happy and smiling. The clock had hit her, but luckily it had just been the edge of it, with main face of the clock missing her. She had still had a cut on her head, but it didn’t seem to bother her too much now, and she was happy about the dinosaur sticker he had put on it last night.

“Billy! You said my sticker was glow in the dark, but it didn’t glow at all…” she said suddenly pouting.

“Well how do you know, it’s on your head silly,” Billy teased before heading off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he came down stairs, he heard Mrs. Graves complaining even before he entered the kitchen.

“Laziest man I ever met in my life,” she scoffed and he entered the kitchen, where she instantly put on a fake smile.

“Hey Billy, did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he lied.

“I hope you don’t mind warmed up pizza for breakfast, my _husband_ has conveniently not woken up to make breakfast, even though it’s _his_ day,” she sighed but then added. “Oh, and your juvenile probation officer emailed me this morning.”

“Oh?” he said timidly taking a seat at the table.

“Yeah, so apparently, your teachers now have to send me updates each class period to notify me that you arrived on time. So… try not to skip any classes okay.”

She handed him the pizza she had microwaved for him and ruffled his hair was she walked by to see if the other two were ready. He wouldn’t need to skip anymore. It’s not like he would have any hero business to be up to.

She came back shortly with Sara and Jordin. She gave them their slices and told them to eat quickly so they could get to school on time.

“When did you get home?” Billy asked.

“About five minutes before you came down,” she explained, he looked down noticing she had on the same outfit from yesterday but she had added a blazer to make the party outfit look more professional.

She checked the time on her phone. “Damn, alright guys. Scarf it down, we gotta go or I won’t get to work on time.”

They all hurried. Sara carried her slice out to the car with her and they all clamored in so they could head to school.

* * *

“Maybe… we should do something fun on his first day here,” Dick pointed out walking up to Bruce who was still steaming, even though they had given him a good hour to cool down. He still buried his attention in the article in front of him. In all likelihood to avoid talking about it.

“How about we all sit down as a family and have dinner,” Alfred suggested. He had appeared at the top of the stairs and was making his way down holding a silver tray.

“I don’t have time to stop to—”

“I figured you would say that thus I brought the food to you,” Alfred said lifting the top of the tray off to reveal a number of freshly made sandwiches. Precut and divided into sections in accordance with what toppings the boys liked on their sandwiches.

“Cool, picnic in the batcave,” Jason said cheerfully. “I’ll grab a blanket.”

“I’ll grab some drinks,” Tim said hurrying back upstairs.

“I’ll get Damian,” Dick said heading down the nearby steps. The floor below was mainly used for storage and, for lack of a better term, panic rooms. He knew where the dull or broken weapons were kept. Dick would often spend spare time down there repairing and sharpening when he had nothing better to do. But it was mostly Alfred’s job to see to those things. He walked around the corner to where Damian was—

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?!?!”

The noise was clearly heard on the floor above. Bruce, Alfred and Jason rushed down. Jason and Bruce didn’t even bother with the stairs they grabbed one of their railings and slid down it.

They were shocked at the sight that met them.

Dick had a towel wrapped around Damain’s arm. Damian’s eyes were wide, but more so in confusion than shock or panic, which was the emotion written all over Dick’s face. The towel was covered in blood.

“What’s wrong with you?” Damian snapped attempting to pull his arm away, but Dick held the towel around it firmly.

“Oooh, he accidentally cut himself? Been there,” Jason said calming down almost instantly. “I can show you the proper way to sharpen weapons if you want.”

Dick moved the towel to look at the wound and they noticed there wasn’t just one. There were several. Several gashes down the back of his forearm. The moment he moved the towel away they started to seep blood once more. Dick covered them immediately holding the towel against it tightly.

“He was cutting his arm on purpose,” Dick pointed out.

“I was testing the sharpness of the blade,” he explained to Bruce and the others and then looked down at Dick. “Why are you panicking?”

“Damian…” Dick didn’t know what to say, or rather, he didn’t know how to word what he wanted to say.

“You don’t use your arm to test the sharpness of a blade,” Bruce said firmly.

 _Well, that’s one way to put i_ t, Dick thought frowning. Blunt and cold as always.

“Mother does it all the time,” he explained. “If you want to know how easily your weapon will cut skin, you test it on skin.”

Thinking for a moment, that they were perhaps upset about the blood on the weapons, he added. “I wiped the weapons off, they’re perfectly clean.”

“Damian, that’s not the point,” Bruce explained heading over to Dick’s side. “Is he going to need stiches?”

“Possibly,” Dick answered.

“I didn’t cut deep enough for stitches to be necessary,” Damian scoffed. They were treating him like a child. He knew how deep to cut his arm to test a blade! Everyone knows that!

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Alfred said and turned to head after it.

“Could you all just stop!” Damian snapped, he had quite enough, and he forcibly yanked his arm away. “I know what I’m doing.”

He walked over to his jacked which he had placed on top of a bin to keep it out of the way while he worked and he shuffled around in the pockets for a bit. A moment later he pulled out a green vial which he uncorked with his teeth and poured partially on his arm before replacing the cork. Then he rubbed the liquid on it. A few swipes across his arm and all he was doing was pushing aside the blood that had already left it. The cuts were gone. He held his arm up as if to say, see I told you, before he rolled his eyes and returned to the weapons picking up the next blade and the sharpening stone.

“Put that down,” Bruce demanded almost the moment he had picked it up.

“What? You told me to—”

“Just put it down,” Bruce sounded exasperated. “You’re not to be around the weapons without supervision.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Of course, you think testing a blade on your own arm is normal. Who knows what else you think is normal…”

“Bruce… maybe… We shouldn’t—” Dick caught the expression on his face and his words fell short.

“Are you hungry Damian?” Alfred said catching Dick’s drift, he tried to change the subject. Dick seemed to understand how crucial this first day was. It was setting up the initial impressions in Damian’s mind. If today went badly, it would take months to repair the relationship between him and Bruce and they were already dangerously close to crossing that line.

“I guess,” he answered. It was obvious Damian wanted to argue some more, but was choosing against it.

“Then we shall all go upstairs and eat.”

“Do you have scotch,” Damian asked after following them up to the main floor of the batcave.

“Not for you,” Jason answered.

“I’m an adult,” he argued. “I always have scotch with dinner.”

“Kid, we got soft drinks or water. Take your pick,” Jason said looking at the collection that Tim had brought down. Tim, who was arguably the most observant of everyone seemed to tell something was off and he kept glancing at Dick for an explanation and he just responded with don’t worry about it grin with the intent of giving him the whole story later.

Bruce ate while at the computer and the rest of them ate while on the floor in a circle, and they could tell Damian was less than pleased with the accommodations. Tim, Jason, Alfred, and Dick were doing their best to get along with Damian, but Damian didn’t make that any easier. He kept slipping in snide insults and Dick genuinely couldn’t tell if he meant them as insults or he genuinely just thought that highly of himself. Still he kept the other’s in check when they attempted to throw insults back.

All in all, Grayson thought Damain’s first day here could have gone worse… so…

* * *

Billy got home that night after a rather horrible day at school. It was horrible because apparently when your school finds out you got picked up by the police and assigned a juvenile probation officer, they automatically label you a delinquent and he missed most of first period because he was in the principals office getting lectured while being called “son” and “big man” and told about how the road he was going down wasn’t going to lead to anything good.

There was no point in arguing with him. So he said the appropriate. “Yes Sir,” and “You’re right,” whenever the situation called for it until he was dismissed.

Everywhere he went it felt like teachers were eying him. Even teachers in the building who didn’t specifically teach him were coming up to him and asking him where he was headed making sure he was going to class and not… Well, he wasn’t really sure what they were expecting of him? That he would sneak of and start a fire somewhere? Or perhaps he would just walk out of his next class and run away again.

Their was no point in running away when he couldn’t even become Captain Marvel anymore…

By the time his last class rolled around, it was clear the whole school knew about his record but apparently no one knew what the charge was for. Which apparently prompted one of the kids in his last class to whisper to him from behind their text book.

“Hey Billy…”

“What?” he answered dully.

“Everyone is saying you killed somebody? Did you really?”

“What? No of course not,” he was a little shocked that they had jumped to that conclusion so quickly.

Mrs. Graves picked him up afterschool looking annoyed to all hell.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she frowned, clearly lying. Then forcing a smiled she added. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he answered, clearly lying.

They got in the car driving to the elementary school where Jordin and Sara attended. They weren’t older enough for middle school, thus they weren’t with him. He was kind of glad for it. He didn’t want them coming home asking if he had killed someone too.

When they pulled in the driveway, he saw the neighbor out clearing their yard. He was an elderly man and had no children that Billy knew of. So he felt a little bad that he was cleaning up the yard by himself.

“Mrs. Graves can I go help Mr. Russo clean up his yard?” he asked.

“Yeah sure,” she said paying more attention to her phone and getting the younger kids out of the car. So he walked over to the fence.

“Mr. Russo do you need some help?” he asked peeking over it. He was just tall enough to see over the top.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you,” he said smiling. “I could use it.”

Billy hopped over the fence and walked over to the charred tree in his yard. They had cut the top off but the pieces were scattered about. The tire that had been used for the tire swing was propped up against the house.

“Do you just want this stuff in a pile or—”

“I’m putting them in a pit over there,” he explained. “I was thinking of having a bomb fire in the next few days, you and the other children are welcome to come over. We’ll roast marshmallows.”

“I’ll ask Mr. and Mrs. Graves,” he assured him before helping him move the pieces. He wished he could have changed for this. Mr. Russo was an elderly man, and he was just a little kid. While some of the pieces moved with ease. Some of the bigger pieces were difficult for both of them and Billy got reminded of his beating from the other night when he moved some of the heavier things as parts of his body ached that didn't normally. Mr, Russo seemed to notice this, because he kept asking if Billy was alright, and he would lie and say he was fine.

Eventually they got all the pieces moved but one. The biggest trunk of the now fallen tree. It was too heavy for either of them to lift and after debating a few possible ways of moving it they eventually decided to just roll it together until it was in the pit with the other pieces of wood.

Mrs. Russo came out after that with popsicles as a thankyou so the three of them sat on the porch enjoying them.

Crazy how lightning could do all that,” Billy said looking at the scorched trunk that still stuck up out of the ground.

“Lighting is pretty powerful, don’t ever underestimate it,” Russo explained.

He liked the Russo couple, so he thought it would be okay if he asked them a somewhat personal question.

“Mr. and Mrs. Russo, what makes couples fight?”

Mr. Russo looked a little surprised at that. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Graves argue a lot,” he explained. “I was thinking their might be something I can do to help them stop fighting.”

“Oh,” he answered looking a little uncomfortable and Billy got worried that made he had overstepped a boundary. But that’s when his wife spoke up.

“Couples argue for many reasons,” she explained. “Most not so easily solved by anything a child can do. But in my experience, arguments are often not as bad when you’re deeply in love. Look at me and Gregorio. We argue sometimes, but deep down I always remember how much he loves me, and that helps me realize that an understanding can be reached.”

“So couples who argue a lot aren’t really in love?” Billy asked looking genuinely interested at this news.

“Not exactly, sometimes people tend to just forget how much in love they are, until it’s too late,” she explained. “We’ve never had that problem because Gregorio reminds me every day.”

“You do?”

He looked a little embarrassed from being praised so much that he grumbled and started staring at the fire pit a short ways away.

“He leaves me little notes,” she explained. “Every morning, he leaves them in various places around the house for me to find. It’s quite sweet.”

“…” Billy glanced over at Mr. Russo and he grumbled and got up walking over to the pit examining it.

Mrs. Russo laughed. “He likes to pretend he’s a big macho man and he doesn’t like me telling people about all the cute little things he does.”

“Why?”

“Well men tend to be embarrassed to express their emotions. So don’t you ever be like that okay. If you love someone you tell them, everyday. Parents, siblings, friends, girlfriends, your wife someday… You tell them every single day. Let them know and don’t ever be afraid to tell them.”

“Do the notes really mean that much to you?” he asked. “It seems like something so small.”

“The smallest gestures are often the most felt ones,” she explained. “Now, you run home and get to your homework, you’re back to school now right.”

“Yeah,” he answered dully, memories from his day at school came back and it almost instantly put him in a bad mood, but he shook it off. “Thanks Mrs. Russo.”

He started heading back.

“Oh Billy,” she called after him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re back home. I was worried about you. Try not run off again okay? Mr. Russo spent several days driving around looking for you, you know.”

“He did?” he was a bit surprised by that.

“He did, so no more running off okay.”

“Okay, I won’t,” he answered. Not that he could now anyway since his powers were taken back. But the idea that someone had actually looked for him was… a wonderfully small gesture.

* * *

The following morning Superman had arrived quite early bringing his son to the Batcave. Bruce had already received his message that he would be coming early before the city was awake so their wasn’t much of a chance of anyone spotting Superman dropping a kid off in the vicinity of Wayne manor. Which would have raised more than a few questions.

He sat Jon on the ground and Jon took in the entirety of the Batcave and immediately wanted to go home. It was dark, and scary, and everything was black. It reminded him a little of Halloween only they just went for creepy in their design and none of the fun Halloween items one would expect to see.

“So you must be Jon, It’s nice to formally meet you.”

He jumped upon being addressed and turned. Two men in suits were standing not too far off. One of them walked up and held his hand out. He wasn’t sure if they had been here the whole time or if they had just showed up but they instantly made him think of bad guys from cartoon shows and he grabbed the edge of his Father’s cape and wrapped it around himself, even taking a step back so his father’s leg partially hid him.

“He’s… shy,” Superman said softly. “It’s okay Jon. This is Bruce Wayne… you know him as Batman.”

“Hello…” he said but he didn’t come out from the little makeshift cocoon he had made for himself with his Father’s cape.

Bruce did his best to look less intimidating. Which wasn’t easy for him, because he normally tried his best to do exactly the opposite. But he knew none of this was going to work if Jon was afraid of him. So he fixed the smile he typically used for business meetings onto his face and took a seat at the Batcave’s computer. “Your father is going to have you stay here while me and him are at our jobs and doing missions for the league. But this is Alfred, he’s a very good friend of mine, and he’ll be looking after you when we’re not here.”

“Here?” he frowned looking around the cave a clearly fearful expression on his face.

“Not here specifically,” Bruce said. “My manor is upstairs, I—”

He looked up at Clark, “Perhaps your son would be more comfortable if we had this discussion upstairs.”

“Yeah I think so,” he agreed placing a guiding hand on the back of Jon’s head they followed Alfred up a set of stairs and through a clock of all things and ended up in a rather normal looking study that reminded him a little bit of a talk show office. Jon refused to unwrap himself from the cape even after they were upstairs.

“There we are, this is much nicer isn’t it Jon?” Bruce asked turning to him. By this point the cape was wrapped around him so much that just his eyes were peeking out from around his father’s leg. He still looked scared, but not as much as before. He didn’t answer Bruce verbally, but nodded.

Bruce had the impression that Jon was much younger than he was, his social skills seemed lacking. Even a shy kid wouldn’t disassociate themselves this much from a conversation.

“Alfred, could you show Jon to his room?” Bruce asked.

“Of course,” he turned to Jon. “Master Jon, will you please come with me?”

He shook his head and disappeared even further behind Clark.

Bruce started to open his mouth, but Alfred held up a hand to quiet him, and Bruce fell silent. This would have been a strange thing to see for anyone who didn’t know Bruce and Alfred extremely well. But despite being the family butler, he was probably the most respected person in the entire house and everyone knew when Alfred said to do something. You do it. Even the great Batman knew Alfred’s word was law. Not to say their weren’t moments even he would try to test that boundary, but it was usually in moments of extreme anger or sadness, and Bruce would almost always apologize after such an episode. Alfred was one of the few people Bruce would ever apologize to.

“Oh dear,” he said softly and he walked over to a nearby cabinet removing from it a plush stuffed animal. “And here I was hoping to escort our little friend here back home. He lives in your room you see, and he has a number of other animal friends waiting for him. I guess, he will just have to live here in this drawer.”

Jon had slid around the back of Clark and peeked out the other side of the cape looking with interest at the animal he held. “I’ll take him home,” he said blinking and then he turned to Clark. “Dad come with me.”

“I will be there in a minute,” he said. “I need to talk with Bruce for a moment.”

“Then can’t I stay?”

“You won’t want to,” Alfred assured him. “In my experience, Master Bruce’s conversations can be terribly dull, let’s find this little guy’s family and your Father will join us shortly. Do you want to carry him?”

He nodded taking the toy he held it close and took the hand Alfred held out for him. He glanced back as they left the room and Clark gave him a reassuring smile before they disappeared from sight.

“You know, it’s my opinion that kids shouldn’t rely too much on their parents.”

“No offense Bruce,” Clark said softly. “But you’re the last person on the planet I want parenting advice from.”

“I’m not wrong,” Bruce pointed out but pressed on, because their was a part of him that couldn’t blame Clark for that response. “Has he always acted this shy around people?”

“You’re the first ones he’s been around since the incident with Lois,” Clark said. “I’m surprised he warmed up to Alfred so quickly.”

“Their isn’t a kid in the world that Alfred can’t win over,” Bruce pointed out. “He’s good with children.”

“Did he ever have any of his own?” Clark asked. Almost feeling like it would have been such a shame if he hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Bruce answered. “Me.”

That wasn’t what Clark meant, but if Bruce was affirming that Alfred was his father or at least a father-like figure, who was he to argue?

* * *

Alfred showed Jon to his room and they reunited the stuffed animal on the shelf with other stuffed creatures and Alfred started pointing out the features of the room to the boy as he did with any guests who came to stay. The kid almost immediately went over to the window and pulled the curtains closed. It was a reasonably nice day for October. Not overly cold, but not warm either, and the morning sun was bright peeking overtop the trees. So seeing him close the curtains felt odd.

“We’re on an upper floor, no one will be able to peek in,” Alfred said thinking for a second that the boy was worried about intruders. Not to mention their probably wasn’t a more secure yard in all of Gotham. So it would have been a feat in itself to even make it to the house if you weren’t allowed or expected… or Superman.

“Dad says I’m not supposed to be in the sun.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not good for me.”

That sounded a tad ridiculous to Alfred. Sure their were some medical issues that would prevent people from being in the sun, but this was supposedly the child of Superman. Superman could recover from wounds and injuries at an astonishing rate. Even if the boy had inherited some sort earthly medical issue from his Mother’s genes, wouldn’t Superman’s genes just allow the boy to recover from it easily, as well as constantly?

“I see…” Alfred responded.

“It’s a nice room,” Clark said walking in with Bruce on his heels. He wasn’t exaggerating. It was huge. It had an attached bathroom and what Alfred had called a play room which just had a lot of video games and toys and stuff in it. They didn’t know what sort of things Jon liked, so they bought a lot of typical things boys in his age group enjoyed. Including a few Superman toys, which they figured he would like. Alfred had explained that stuff before he got distracted with closing the window.

Jon liked it because it was bigger than his bedroom and cellar combined.

“Dad look, it’s you!” he pointed out running into the side room he came back with a Superman plush doll.

He smiled awkwardly at it. He was never not going to find it a little strange to see versions of himself in doll form, which he would see often, as kids tended to come up to him during his hero work wanting him to sign their dolls or action figures.

“Very… cute. So… listen,” he said quickly changing the subject. “I’m going to head to work now. Stay here and mind Alfred.”

“Okay,” he answered.

“I’ll be back here late tonight.”

“Okay.”

He turned to Alfred. “Listen if he… If he starts losing it. Just get far away from him and call for me. I’ll hear you wherever I am.”

“I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” Alfred assured him.

“Until tonight then,” he said to Bruce and with a woosh he was gone.

Jon went over to his bed sitting on it with his Superman plushie.

“Well, then,” Alfred said. “Shall we go have breakfast.”

“I already ate,” Jon said wrapping the covers from the blanket around his head.

“I see… well, you’re free to explore the manor. So don’t feel like you have to stay couped up here,” Alfred pointed out before he turned to leave. Other people in the house needed breakfast after all, but he would come check back in on him later.

He left closing the door and Jon noticed a lock on it. He jumped off the bed and hurried over locking it from the inside. There. That was better. No one could come in and accidentally get hurt by him now. His father had already told him he wasn’t to go exploring and was to stay in his room until his Father came to get him. He went back to the bed and curled back up in the blanket turning on the TV to see if there were any good cartoons on.

* * *

Billy woke up to the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Graves yelling at one another. He groaned because it was over an hour before they had to even get up for school. He decided to crawl out of bed anyway and start getting ready. He stalled as long as he could until he had finished every aspect of getting ready that didn’t involve leaving his room, and deciding he couldn’t put that off too long he left his room heading downstairs. They were in the living room yelling.

Billy decided to pretend as though he couldn’t hear them and walked straight to the kitchen. When his silhouette went by the living room entrance they both lowered their voices and he heard Mrs. Graves whisper in a stern voice, “See what you did, your yelling woke the kids!”

He heard he come into the kitchen and Billy didn’t turn around when she came in.

“Want me to make you something?” she asked as cheerfully as she could manage.

“No I’m fine,” Billy answered. “I’m just going to have toast or something.”

“Okay,” she answered nervously. “If you—”

There was a sudden slamming sound from upstairs. It sounded like Mr. Graves had slammed his bedroom door. Mrs. Graves frowned before following him.

Maybe if Mr. Graves left her some notes… Many she should feel more loved, and they would not fight as much, Billy found himself thinking. If Mrs. Russo was right, maybe that would help their relationship. Forgetting about the toast he had put in the toaster he hurried to the living room and went over to Mr. Graves’ briefcase. A quick cautionary glance upstairs he pulled out a document he had been writing on and grabbed a blank sheet of paper. He put that paper on top of it and shown a lamp down on it. Then taking out a pen he started tracing one of each letter he could find. There weren’t as many capital letters for him to trace, but he had a good chunk of the alphabet by the time he was done. He put that sheet back into the case and rummaged around for a different one where he repeated the process. Eventually he had a good set of letters to work with. He replaced that document back in the case and folded up the paper putting it in his pocket.

He could save their relationship. He could do it, he was sure. Billy would take some free time at lunch and write Mrs. Graves some lovey grown up notes that she could find in her husband’s writing and she would feel loved again. Then they will stop fighting, and if they don’t fight Mr. Graves will be happy, and if he’s happy, he’ll stop drinking. This was a perfect plan.

He didn’t need a cape to be a hero after all…

* * *

“Your sons are all talking to a door,” Damian pointed out upon entering the Batcave that afternoon.

“Yeah, they’re trying to coax out Jon.”

“Jon?” he had opted out of breakfast that morning to do some research so he had missed the morning conversations from the others about their new resident.

“He’s Superman’s son,” Bruce explained wiping his hands clean on a nearby towel. He was looking into the Batmobile’s engine. “He’s staying with us for a little while.”

“Superman has a son?”

“Yeah, it was surprise to me too.”

“With the little I know of you, I’m betting you’ve probably already made a profile on him,” Damian said taking a seat in front of the computer he started hacking into it.

“Use the hand scanner,” Bruce called still in deep focus on the Batmobile’s engine.

Damian paused in his hacking and placed his hand on the scanner. A light scanned his palm and then the computer opened up.

“You gave me a login?”

“You’re family,” Bruce pointed out without turning around. “Everyone in the family has access to the computer.”

“…”

Bruce looked up at him and smiled slightly. “What, you didn’t want access?”

“Of course I did… I just figured you wouldn’t trust me, being the grandson of your enemy and all.”

“You’re my son first and foremost,” he pointed out. “Any other relations you have come second. You have my trust until you do something to destroy that. I would recommend not doing that though.”

“…” Damian turned back to the computer and pulled up Jon’s file, as he didn’t know quite what to say to that. Trust was something earned not just given out of nowhere, so that fact that his father gave him access to a highly secure system that could cause irreputable damage if abused, was… odd, foolish even. Especially being only his second day in the house.

He skimmed the most pertinent information that Batman had on him, and he frowned slightly before he brought up the camera feed from the room Jon was in.

“Oh, Damian no…” Bruce hurried up behind him. “We don’t look at the security footage in personal bedrooms.”

“Then why have them?” Damian asked looking up at Jon sitting on his bed with his legs pulled up and a blanket over his head. The curtains were drawn closed despite it being a surprisingly sunny day for October.

“Emergencies,” he explained.

“Hmm…” he watched the boy huddled up and glanced back at the file thinking. “Your small Superman appears to be broken Father.”

Bruce hit a button closing out the camera feed to the room.

“Mother told me to prove my worth to you. So I’ll fix him if you wish,” Damian explained.

“The situation is complicated,” Bruce explained frowning. “He can’t just be fixed that easily.”

“Sure he can,” Damian said turn the chair so he could face Bruce. “My record for mentally breaking a man is ten minutes once I realized exactly what could destroy him, and that took a few days of interrogation. Once I figure out what will fix someone mentally, I’ll bet he can be fixed in a day or so.”

“Damian,” Bruce said. “It’s not that easy. His… mother…”

“I skimmed your notes Father. Nearly cut in half. That would be traumatic for any child. But also his Father had been keeping him in a cellar for the better part of each day since the accident. He also got homeschooled after that so he pretty much didn’t have to leave for anything.”

“Superman didn’t want him hurting people,” Bruce explained. “I can’t say I agree with his exact methods… but… he did what he thought was best.”

“He also made his son weak,” Damian pointed out bringing up Jon’s file again he scrolled down to the brief medical issue that Bruce had documented about the boy’s eyes bleeding.

“Oh?” Bruce already had his own theories on this topic, but he was interested to hear Damian’s thoughts. “What do you think?

“His good intentions have exacerbated his son’s condition. Superman himself needs the sun, or he grows weak and frail. If we isolated him below ground for a few years and he attempted to use his heat vision, then I’m willing to bet his eyes would probably be damaged from the sheer temperature as well,” Damian brought up Superman’s profile scrolling through it. Bruce could see his eyes darting across the screen as he speed read over the information present. “The sun is a source of strength for kryptonians, lack of it almost ensures he will be weakened. Which could very well be the reason for Jon’s lack of control over his powers. Ensuring they go off like a trigger when his emotions go overboard. Which is almost a certainty considering the seclusion he was subjected to. Grown men have broken down from isolation, so being deprived social interaction and activity for as long as he was (especially as young as he is) is almost a guarantee that he would have no more control over his emotions than he does his powers.”

Bruce had come up with a very similar conclusion. Many of these aspects he had planned to test and explore with Clark present, as he had promised him no tests would be performed without him present.

“I doubt Mr. Kent,” Damain referred to him as that after reading his actual name in his file. “took into account the need for the sun by the kid’s human half as well.”

Bruce folded his arms listening intently and Damian took this as a sign he wanted him to continue.

“Normal human children can develop a number of health issues when they don’t have access to sunlight. Vitamin D deficiency is actually a growing problem in the medical field with kids spending more and more time in doors and not going outside to play or work on farms like they did in the old days. The vitamin can be acquired in some foods, but it’s nearly impossible to get the amount that a healthy child needs from food alone. So you have both his kryptonian half and his human half in desperate need of sunlight, which he’s not really getting,” Damian explained he got to his feet. “I’m going to do a test run and take him outside.”

“His Father didn’t want us running any experiments on him without him present,” Bruce pointed out.

“If Mr. Kent asks, just tell him we went outside to play, that’s a typical thing children do so it shouldn’t raise suspicion.”

With that said Damian started heading to the steps.

“Good luck with that, the boys have been trying to get him to leave that room all day from what I heard.”

“I’m sure I can convince him,” Damian called back before he disappeared upstairs.

He immediately went to the room. The other two appeared to have gotten bored, but Grayson was still attempting to coax him out with soft taps on the door and encouraging promises of the chocolate cake Grayson had on a plate waiting for him.

“Did the promise of sweets not work?” Damian asked him.

“Afraid not,” Grayson admitted. “Did you want to give it a try?”

“Yeah,” he answered and he turned the handle. It was locked.

“Of course we tried that,” Dick pointed out setting the cake down on a nearby end table.

“Did you try this?” Damian did a spinning kick to the door breaking the hinge and the door burst open with such force it hit and dented the wall beside it.

“DAMIAN!” Grayson snapped, but Damian ignored him. He walked in, Jon had sunk down by the side of the bed at the loud noise and was peeking over the edge looking fearful.

“Hi,” Damian said walking over to him. “You’re coming with me.”

He walked over to him and as Damian got closer Jon backed up further against the wall looking terrified. “No, wait… stay away. I might—”

Damian grabbed the edges of the blanket that Jon had wrapped around him and pulled lightly. Jon didn’t want to let go of the blanket so he stood up holding it tightly. Had had intended to pull it off him, but since Jon wasn’t letting go, Damian used it to his advantage and treated it like a leash to escort him from the room. “Wait, where are we going?”

“Outside,” Damian answered.

“I’m not supposed to go outside.”

“I’m not supposed to kick open doors, but here we are,” he answered.

They walked by Grayson who stood there looking dumbfounded.

Jon stopped next to him, forcing Damian to stop when the blanket went taught and wouldn’t move. “What are you doing? C’mon…”

Jon who held the blanket wrapped firmly around his shoulders and head, peeked around it, eyeing the cake Grayson had sat on the corner table. Grayson smiled and handed it to him and Jon’s face lit up when he took it, disappearing behind the covers once again, and Damian guided him down the hall, down the steps, and to the entrance where he had Jon put on his coat before they headed outside. He did so under the blanket still not disappearing from under the covers.

It was chilly but not exactly cold since the sun was out. Still it was almost winter so it was difficult to expect warm weather even on a sunny day.

Jon was completely distracted by the cake as he had been feeling hungry, but he didn’t want to open the door earlier to ask Alfred for food. Though since this kid was making him leave anyway, their was no reason to not eat the cake now. It was delicious too. Once it was gone, his mind went back to where he was and he noticed this strange kid was opening the doors of a new building. Wait… when had they gone to a new building. He turned back and saw the manor wasn’t too far behind them. They must have wanted him out of the house, so he wouldn’t hurt the building. He couldn’t blame them… Father didn’t even want him in the house most of the time, and he probably told them about how he set the cellar on fire…

He glanced up at the building they were in front of, which was made of glass. He frowned. Glass broke easy. Why would they move him from the house to another easily destroyable building? Maybe they didn’t care about this one?

“C’mon,” the boy said and walked him inside. There were plants everywhere. Lots of flowers. It was all kind of pretty.

“This is Father’s Greenhouse,” Damian pointed out.

The boy had continued talking but Jon had stopped listening, though he did notice the boy had let go of his blanket so he looked around trying to find a place he could tuck himself away and cause the least amount of damage. He spotted a table with a small overhanging area so he crawled underneath it going back as far as he could.

He didn’t realize their was a kid around his age at Batman’s house, but he knew he should stay away from him. Even though their was a part of him that wanted to be friends. He watched the kid continue to talk about the building, and he turned around looking annoyed that he was no longer behind him.

A quick scan with his eyes, and his disapproving scowl fell on Jon’s hiding spot.

“What the hell are you doing?” the kid snapped kneeling down.

“Waiting…” Jon answered.

“Waiting for what?”

“My Dad come back and get me.”

“He’s not going to be back for a few hours yet… You can’t stay under there all day. Come out!”

“No thankyou…”

“That wasn’t a request,” the kid grabbed his blanket again forcefully pulling him out.

“You don’t understand… I can’t be near you… I can’t be near anyone,” Jon retorted attempting to pull the blanket back, but failing.

“You do realize that Superman’s son’s shouldn’t be losing at tug of war match with a kid,” Damian pointed out, he continued to drag him out until he was in the middle of the greenhouse floor. Then he stepped on the edge of the blanket to prevent Jon from sulking away into another corner. Damian noticed he very much didn’t want to stop hiding under the blanket and wasn’t willing to let go of it to find a new place to hide.

“Get off,” he complained kicking feebly at Damian’s shoe.

“Make me,” Damian responded, knowing full well how childish the response was. Still it was ridiculous that the son of Superman couldn’t make him move.

After a few minutes, he gave up and sat in a little ball with the blanket over top of his head. The kid should have had the power to pick him up and throw him through a building if he damn well pleased.

“Why are you covering up?”

“Dad said I’m not supposed to be out in the sun.”

“…” Frowning Damian picked up the edge of the blanket he was stepping on. “This blanket doesn’t have sentimental value for you, does it?”

“No… It’s Mr. Wayne’s blanket.”

“Good,” Damian answered and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a lighter and lit the end of it on fire. It started to engulf quickly. As soon as Jon noticed he, of course threw the blanket off of him looking panicked.

“There we go,” Damian said grabbing the non-lit end he tossed it into a nearby decorative pond that had a fountain in the middle. “Do you draw Jon?”

Jon was still too stunned by how crazy this kid was to realize what he had asked. The kid walked over to an outdoor table set and dragged it to it was in the middle of the greenhouse. Then he brought over two chairs.

“Sit,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Jon got up sitting at the table. He knew he needed to not be in the sun, but this kid scared him a little. So he decided it was better to listen to him for now. He leaned so far forward that he could rest his chin on the surface of the table. Maybe this wasn’t a bad place for him to stay until his Dad came back. It was far from the house, and everything here appeared to be either plants or metal, and metal would be hard to catch fire he guessed.

Even though the kid had said he would be back, Jon hadn’t actually expected him to be. Though he did return within’ a few minutes, and when he came back he had a large black bag with him. He took a seat in the other chair and pulled out a small case that he emptied in the middle of the table. Markers, Pens, Colored Pencils of varying brands and colors poured out.

Then he took a piece of paper out and handed it to Jon before he removed a piece of paper from the bag for himself.

“Draw me, and I’m going to draw you.”

“I… don’t really draw…” he explained.

“Do you have hands?” the kid asked dully.

“…yes?”

“Then you can draw.”

As though this settled the matter this crazy kid got to work only looking up occasionally to check how his picture compared.

“Who are you?” Jon asked.

“Damian,” he answered. “I’m Batman’s son.”

“… I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere…”

“I’m Ra’s Al Ghul’s grandson,” Damian added figuring that was where he knew him from. Most people knew about Ra’s and Talia and the League of their followers. It was perhaps the most popular modern day religion.

“Oh… yeah…” he frowned suddenly.

“What?”

“My Dad says they’re a cult.”

“We’re not a cult,” Damian said frowning. “We’re a sect.”

“…” Jon’s frowned deepened. “Isn’t that another word for cult?”

Damian looked up, seemingly slightly annoyed. “Just draw already.”


End file.
